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Book 

















































LEONID 

ANDREYEV 
























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LEONID ANDREYEV 


A CRITICAL STUDY 


BY 






v> 




ALEXANDER KATJN 

i/ 


A THESIS ACCEPTED IN PARTIAL SATISFACTION OF 
THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF 
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY 


BY THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 




















































« 







Do 

V*j) 


LEONID 

ANDREYEV 

A CRITICAL 
STUDY 6y 
ALEXANDER 
KAUN 



NEW YORK B. W. HUEBSCH, INC. MCMXXIV 





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


This work has been accredited by the University of California as a 
thesis for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the department of Slavic 
Languages. To the members of the Committee on my candidacy I am 
indebted for their many-sided help. I am particularly grateful to the 
Chairman, Professor George R. Noyes, for his indefatigable effort to clear 
my essay from errors and gaucheries. 

I am deeply beholden to Mme. Anna Ilyinishna Andreyev for her kindly 
interest in my work, for giving me invaluable personal information, and 
for permitting me to study her husband’s unpublished writings, diaries, 
and letters. Among those who encouraged my trip to Europe for research 
purposes I wish to mention especially Miss Ethelwyn Wing and Mr. 
Albert Bender. 

Acknowledgment is due to the Freeman and to the New Republic , in 
whose columns appeared originally the material incorporated in the sec¬ 
tions of this essay pertaining to the general characteristics of Andreyev’s 
art, and to the last days of Andreyev’s life. 












CONTENTS 


PAGB 


Introduction.3 

I. A brief survey of literary tendencies in Russia.—Dominating 
motive in Russian literature: Service.—Intelligensia.—Serfdom.— 
Narodnichestvo.—City versus village.—Chekhov, as a transitional 
writer.—Gorky’s new note.—The nineties, and their divergent cur¬ 
rents.—The voice of Andreyev. 

II. General characteristics of Andreyev as a writer.—Philosophic 
problems.—Unanswered questions.—Lack of detachment.—Gravity.— 
Unevenness.—Multiplicity of styles.—Reason for his influence.—One 
of the rank and file.—Perpetual tocsin.—Lunacharsky’s estimate of 
Andreyev’s position. 

PART I 

THE LIFE AND PERSONALITY OF ANDREYEV 

I. Andreyev’s Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth . . . .21 

Eventfulness of Andreyev’s lifetime.—Adumbrative traits.—Life in 
Orel.—Nonconformity and discontent.—Death of father.—At the Pet- 
rograd university.—Hunger, and first literary attempts.—Suicides.— 
Addiction to drink.—At the Moscow university.—Painting.—Failure 
as a lawyer.—Journalism.—Ideal court reporter.—Feuilletons. 

II. Andreyev’s Feuilletons. 39 

Motives in Andreyev’s feuilletons.—The Sphinx of Modernity.—Ib- 
senite individualism, and contradictory notes.—Buoyancy.—Denounces 
Chekhovian melancholy.—Greets Gorky.—Love for life, in spite of 
its drawbacks.—Avowed influences.—Nietzschean motives.—Illusion- 
ism.—Desire to escape responsibility.—Andreyev’s view on the writer’s 
mission.—Intense sincerity in his creations. 

III. Early Stories. 57 

Andreyev’s first story.—Gorky’s response.—The Znaniye group.— 
Andreyev’s unpartisanship.—Success of his first book.—The “Wed¬ 
nesdays.”—His solitude among writers.—Broadening problems: The 
Abyss, and In Fog. —Attacks and praise: symptomatic attitude of the 
public.—His first wife. Her death.—His gloom.—Growing opposi¬ 
tion to his writings. 

IV. Maturity and Solitude.81 

Singular success of The Seven That Were Hanged. —Life in Finland. 
—Expanse and freedom.—Hobbies.—Andreyev’s second wife.—Tol- 

& 






x Contents 

stoy and Andreyev.-—Tolstoy’s letter.—Andreyev in Yasnaya Polyana. 
—The points of criticism in Tolstoy’s letter applied to Andreyev.— 
The style is the man.—Andreyev’s subjectivity.—Flaubert vs. Mod¬ 
erns.—Andreyev’s strength and weakness.—His realistic method.— 
His ability to express the individuality of things and the inexpressible. 
—His employment of symbols.—Stimmungssymbolik and universal sym¬ 
bols.—Lack of unity in his symbolic plays.—Intermixture of realism, 
symbolism, and allegory.—Obscurity.—Hurried writing.—Surplusage. 
—Inspirational intuition.—His work more a deliverance than a joy.— 
Intuition vs. normality and reason.—Pan-psychism in his later works. 
Andreyev on form.—Merezhkovsky’s judgment.—Andreyev’s growing 
isolation.—His attachment for the Moscow Art Theatre.—Reserved 
reciprocity.—Andreyev’s “cruel reputation.”—Andreyev and Blok.— 
Andreyev’s “substance” curtly defined.—Pleading with Nemirovich- 
Danchenko for the need of tragedy.—Andreyev’s unborn works. 


V. War, Revolution, and Death.* 3 * 

Two aspects of Andreyev’s attitude toward the war.—Public accep¬ 
tance of it.—Journalism.— King, Law, Liberty. — War’s Burden. —Gen¬ 
eral enthusiasm.—Andreyev’s illness, depression, material want, crav¬ 
ing for an illusion.—War—autocracy’s doom.—Military nature of the 
March revolution.—Andreyev’s hopes for war’s results.—Predomin¬ 
ance of gray soldiers.—Extremism of the masses.—Breakdown of fight¬ 
ing spirit and discipline.—Andreyev’s disgust, and dark prophecy.— 
Elected member of pre-parliament.—Bolshevik victory.—Andreyev’s 
uncompromising opposition.— S. O. S. —Last trip to Petrograd.—His 
mother, and his letter to her.—Retrospection.—Self-humiliation.—An¬ 
dreyev portrayed by Roerich.—Work on Satan’s Diary. —1919*—About 
Gorky.—Andreyev eager to head anti-Bolshevik propaganda.—Letter 
to Gessen.—State of mind and body.—Spurned by Whites.—Projected 
trip to America.—“Three roads.”—“Threefold exile.”—Disgust and 
despondency.—Bracing effect of nature.—Death of Man.—Last utter¬ 
ance. 


PART II 

THE MOTIVES AND BACKGROUND OF ANDREYEV’S 

WORK 


I. Influences and Kinship. 179 

Avowed influences.—Their nature.—Negative views of Pisarev and 
Tolstoy, of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.—Andreyev not a consistent 
philosopher.—Kinship of the two philosophers to Andreyev.—Their 
common attitudes.—Nietzsche’s memento <vivere vs. Schopenhauer’s 
resignation.—Coexistence of contradictory elements in Andreyev.— 

His nearness to Nietzsche’s passionate restlessness and unreservednesi. 




Contents xi 

—His nearness to Schopenhauer’s ethical ideal.—Resume: Andreyev’s 
aptness for adopting negative rather than positive views. 

II. Early Period: Problems of the Individual . . . .188 

Andreyev’s first stories, “made to order.”—Gorky’s discernment.— 
Andreyev’s individuals compared with those of Gorky, Dostoyevsky, 
Chekhov.—Fear of life.—Loneliness, isolation, chasm between man 
and man.—Illusionism, and disenchantment.—Solution?—Zarathustra’s 
suggestion.—The leper’s attitude.—Symbolism of The Wall. —An¬ 
dreyev’s broadening skepticism.—The slumbering brute, in The Abyss. 

—Thought, the traitor.—The tragedy of faith, in The Life of Vasily 
Fiveysky. —Schopenhauerian motives.—Their epitome in The Life of 
Man. —Someone-in-Gray—Will-to-Live.—Man’s curse and deliverance, 
in death. 

III. Problems of Collective Humanity.213 

Two kinds of social writers in Russia.—Andreyev’s place.—His re¬ 
sponse to contemporary events: extracting their essential significance. 

_ The Fed Laugh. —Indictment of war.—The background of the story. 

_The disastrous war with Japan, and its resultant upheaval in Rus¬ 
sia.—The “bloodless revolution” of 1905.—Public unity and disunity.— 

The Governor, and its background.—Suggestive power of thought, 
individual and collective.— Thus It Was— disparagement of revolutions 
and of mass intelligence.—Inner slavery.— To the Stars. —The astron¬ 
omer’s outlook sub specie aeternitatis.— Marusya, attached to the earth. 

—Encouraging notes of the play*—The workman. The year 1906, 
and Savva. —Uncompromising destruction: Ignis sanat. —Rationalism 
vs. faith.—Official recognition of Andreyev’s influence.—The back¬ 
ground of The Seven That Were Hanged.— Condemnation of capital 
punishment.—Triumph over death.—Terrorists in actual life. Sacri¬ 
ficing one’s soul, not only one’s body.— Darkness.—Sashka Zhegulev, 
and its background.—The 20th century repentant noble.—Andreyev’s 
sentiment in From the Story Which Will Never Be Finished.— Epitome 
of his social writings, in Tsar Hunger. —The working class. The 
Lumpenproletariat.—The bourgeoisie, and its subservient science, art, 
church, courts.—The Intelligentsia.—Andreyev’s attitude consistent 
with the views of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.—Yet, unlike them, he 
fails to justify state institutions as a necessary evil.—Torn between 
reason and sentiment. 

IV. Problems of Reason and Morality.259 

Seeming contradictions in Andreyev’s outlook.—He exalts reason as 
a perpetual quest.—Rejects dogmatic, presumptuous reason.—“Man ac¬ 
cording to Schopenhauer.”—Schopenhauer’s sufficient reason.—Nietz¬ 
sche’s small reason.—Mystery of Self.— The Black Maskers.— Duke 
Lorenzo’s castle.—Courage of self-analysis.—Reason versus faith. 

Religion as an expedient.—Value of suffering.—“King Herod.” Dog¬ 
matic reason: Judas and the Apostles.—Dogmatic common sense: My 



xii Contents 

Memoirs. —The formula of the Iron Grate.—A caricature of Tolstoy? 
—Adaptability-a modern fetich.—Peace and war.—Restless intellect: 
Judas’s “test.”—Repetition of theme: Anathema, seeker of phenomenal 
knowledge.—Success of Anathema’s “test.”—Small Reason versus 
Great Reason.—Immortality.—Schopenhauer’s liberating, transcen¬ 
dental knowledge.—Immortality through altruism: David, Musya, 
Werner.—“Heroic” life.—Andreyev’s adherence to Schopenhauer’s 
positive ideal implies his divergence from Nietzsche.—Nietzsche’s 
“overcoming” of Schopenhauer.—Will-to-power, ruthless creative 
force.—Acceptance of life and pain.—Masters and slaves.—Rejection 
of pity, altruism, equality.—Personalism.— The Ocean. —Haggart— 
superman; Mariette—humanity; Horre—brutal force.—Haggart’s 
adaptability.—The rejection of Nietzsche’s moral standard.—Andrey¬ 
ev’s duality.—His quest of a synthesis.—Resemblance to Nietzsche. 


V. 


A. 

B. 

C. 

D. 

E. 

F. 

G. 

H. 

I. 

J. 

K. 


L. 

M. 

N. 


Recapitulations.303 

Variants of former themes.—Maturity of tone and conceptions.— 
Contemporary social life at a standstill.—Pseudo-parliamentarism.— 
Cadets, and The Pretty Sabine Women. —Political adaptability.—Merit 
of the Cadets.—Demoralizing effect of official policy.—Reign of petti¬ 
ness and vulgarity, portrayed in Professor Storitsyn, Katherina 
Ivanovna, Thou Shalt Not Kill. —Storitsyn and Savvich.—Mentikov- 
omnipotent pettiness.—Yakov-the Russian people.— He Who Gets 
Slapped. —Intellect and beauty profaned.— The Waltz of the Dogs .— 
Solitude motive.— Samson Enchained, Andreyev’s triumph.—Man’s 
inner conflict.—Andreyev’s decline, in Satan*s Diary. —A characteristic 
close to Andreyev’s career. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Chronological List of Andreyev’s Works . 
English Translations of Andreyev’s Writings 
French Translations of Andreyev’s Writings 
Dutch Translations of Andreyev’s Writings . 
German Translations of Andreyev’s Writings 
Italian Translations of Andreyev’s Writings . 
Spanish Translations of Andreyev’s Writings 
Swedish Translations of Andreyev’s Writings 
Books on Andreyev, in Russian. 


Articles on Andreyev, in Russian Books and Periodicals 337 
Articles on Andreyev, in English .... 

Notes on Andreyev, in French Periodicals . 

Notes on Andreyev, in German Periodicals 

Andreyev’s Plays. 

Index . 


327 

329 

331 

332 

332 

334 

335 
335 
335 


342 

344 

345 
345 
349 








INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

I 

A brief survey of literary tendencies in Russia.—Dominating motive in 
Russian literature: Service.—Intelligentsia.—Serfdom.—Narod- 
nichestvo.—City versus village.—Chekhov, as a transitional 
writer.—Gorky’s new note.—“Pure” art.—The nineties, and 
their divergent currents.—The voice of Andreyev. 

U.NTIL the end of the nineteenth century Russian literature 
possessed a distinct motive: Service. It had been instrumental 
in propagating or popularizing certain causes, which varied with 
the time, the regime, the mood and cultural level of society. 
During the Kiev and Moscow periods of Russian history the 
written word had been ecclesiastic in content and in spirit. Even 
such secular productions as theatrical plays and syllabic verses, 
which began to appear about the middle of the seventeenth 
century, were definitely tinged with a religious hue. The advent 
of Peter the Great signified the subjugation of all national forces 
and sentiments, church and literature included, to the service 
of the State. He secularized Russia, at any rate externally. 
His drastic reforms and revolutionary changes formed the sub¬ 
ject of literary propaganda and eulogy during his reign and 
throughout the eighteenth century. The sermons of Proko¬ 
povich, the satires of Kantemir, the odes and dramas of Tredya- 
kovsky, Lomonosov, Sumarokov, Derzhavin, and their lesser 
brethren, were overwhelmingly dedicated to the service of the 
new order of things. Thus we find that Russian literature pre¬ 
served a governmental or a semi-official character from the time 
of the Conversion (988) until the latter part of the reign of 
Catherine II, serving, with a very few exceptions, the powers 
that be. It is only with the appearance of the Intelligentsia, late 
in the eighteenth century, that Russian literature acquires the 


4 Leonid Andreyev 

oppositional character, which has remained its dominant trait, 
and thus transfers its service from the rulers to the people. 

The somewhat vague term of Intelligentsia may be applied to 
the unorganized group of Russian men and women who, regard¬ 
less of their social or economic status, have been united in a 
common striving for the betterment of material and spiritual 
conditions. Only such a broad definition of the Intelligentsia 
can indicate the scope of its interests and activities. Eschewing 
considerations of personal gain, disregarding and even combat¬ 
ing class interests and privileges, in the name of the common 
weal, this group is bound to present a minority in an age of 
practical common sense, and, furthermore, an opposition to ex¬ 
isting authorities. Until we arrive at ideal conditions, the fact 
remains that any government voices the desires of certain 
portions of the population, which desires it fosters and supports 
often at the expense of other portions of the population. Hence 
the Intelligentsia, in championing the equality of individuals and 
of classes, has condemned itself to the position of a perpetual 
opposing minority under any government, be it the tsaristic 
order bestowing favors upon the propertied classes, be it the 
Bolshevist regime which discriminates in favor of the proper¬ 
tyless. 

Isolated thinkers, idealists, rebels against things as they are, 
Russia had had earlier, though in a very inconspicuous number. 
Not until the latter part of the eighteenth century, however, did 
there appear in Russia a group of such individuals, cogitating 
and acting somewhat coordinately. Such a thinking and articu¬ 
late element, the Intelligentsia, began to show signs of ex¬ 
istence three or four generations after the promulgation of 
Peter’s reform, when a limited portion of society had been able 
to absorb Western ideas and doctrines, notably those of the 
French philosophers and encyclopedists of the eighteenth 
century. With the initial encouragement of Catherine II, a 
friend of Voltaire and Diderot, contemporary ideas of equality 
and democracy penetrated the minds of her advanced subjects, 
provoking inevitable resentment against the existing conditions 
of political, social, and economic slavery. With the writings 


Introduction 


5 

of Novikov and Radishchev, both severely punished by Cath¬ 
erine, both therefore the first martyrs of the literary Intelli¬ 
gentsia, Russian literature freed itself from the fetters of Court 
and State, and entered upon its natural path—nonconformist, 
oppositional, denunciatory. Thenceforth Russian writers, if 
we consider the most representative of them, have performed a 
task similar to that of the prophets of Israel, in its loftiness and 
arduousness, and in the hardships and perils with which it is 
fraught. No longer serving authorities, whether secular or 
ecclesiastic, Russian literature during the last one hundred years 
has been largely dedicated to the service of the oppressed 
people . 1 

Not ungermane to the idealistic and altruistic character of 
this literature has been the fact that nearly all its conspicuous 
makers belonged to the very class against whose privileges and 
hardness they have pleaded on behalf of the masses. In other 
words, from Radishchev to Chekhov the bulk of Russian litera¬ 
ture presents the gentry’s attitude toward the peasant. Liberal- 
minded landowners and serf-holders, like Grigorovich or 
Turgenev, were typical of the pre-emancipation authors, whose 
chief purpose was to prove that the serf had a soul, and thus 
to arouse shame and repentance in those responsible for the en¬ 
slavement of millions of fellow beings. Since both the writers 
and the readers were non-peasants, the subject matter did not 
escape idealization. To the “repentant nobleman” the abused 

1 My definition of “Intelligentsia” is inclusive, and is therein different from the 
prevailing definitions of this word, which are for the most part controversial (an 
elaboration of my view may be found in The Freeman, of March 29 and April 
19, 1922). My definition does not exclude from the Intelligentsia even such 
seemingly “conforming” writers as Gogol and Dostoyevsky. For whatever their 
personal views may have been, their productions had a profoundly subversive 
significance, as far as existing institutions were concerned. However conserva¬ 
tive in their last days, Gogol and Dostoyevsky revealed in their works the cor¬ 
ruption of the political, social, economic, and moral state of contemporary Russia, 
and thereby contributed to the negatory outlook of the reading public. It may be 
noted, in passing, that under the Soviet regime Russian writers for the most part 
fare no better than under the tsars: they continue their nonconformist attitude, and 
proceed to denounce the ruling class, at the risk of persecution and even death. 
One need only recall the occasionally fearless stand of Gorky, The Twelve, by 
Blok, the execution of the poet Gumilev, and the generally precarious conditions 
of the Intelligentsia in Bolshevik Russia. 


6 Leonid Andreyev 

peasant appeared crowned with all virtues and endowed with un¬ 
limited potentialities. The Narodnik school dominated Rus¬ 
sian letters through the latter half of the nineteenth century. 
“Narod”—that is, the people—from an object of pity and 
sympathy was raised to an object of worship and emulation. 
The peasant’s suffering and humility, faith and kindliness, sim¬ 
plicity and poesy, were eulogized in prose and in verse, by 
Nekrasov, by Dostoyevsky, by Tolstoy, and by less artistic but 
more vehement Narodnik writers. At the same time the peasant 
institutions of the village system, the Mir and the Obshchina, 
with their main features of communal ownership and mutual 
responsibility, formed the alpha and omega of “Russian Social¬ 
ism,” from Herzen and Chernyshevsky, through Mikhailov¬ 
sky, to the present day Social Revolutionists. 

Narodnichestvo, or the cult of the people of the soil, in belles- 
lettres as well as in religious, political and social-economic 
thought, has owed its enduring effect in a large measure to the 
predominantly rural quality of Russian life. The late appear¬ 
ance of capitalism (large private industries were exceedingly 
few before the middle of the nineties) accounted for the 
preservation on Russian soil of traits and institutions which 
long ago became archaic and disappeared in the West. Of these 
institutions the village commune was in the eyes of the Narod- 
niki most characteristically Russian, destined to serve as the 
foundation stone for a socialistic order. The village lent its 
flavor to literature. Rustic air and vastness permeate the best 
Russian novels, excepting those of Dostoyevsky. But though 
late, capitalism did arrive. The expectations of the Narodniki 
notwithstanding, Russia failed to “skip” the capitalistic stage 
in its march toward Socialism. The city became a factor in 
Russian life, it acquired a physiognomy and a voice. 

Moreover, the village sanctuary no longer appeared infallible. 
Even among the Narodniki one could discern discordant notes 
regarding the saintliness and inherent communistic notions of 
the peasant. Thus during the eighties, Glyeb Uspensky wrote 
a series of village pictures which were most disparaging. Him¬ 
self an ardent Narodnik, Uspensky went to live among peasants, 


Introduction 


7 

and the impressions he gathered were so disheartening that they 
actually drove him to insanity. Uspensky’s peasants differed 
from Turgenev’s gentle, poetic souls, as they differed from 
Tolstoy’s perfect Christians. Uspensky depicted them as 
slaves of the soil, monomaniacal in their interests and aspira¬ 
tions, which were limited to the question of land, and more 
land, to the exclusion of any other thoughts and sentiments. 
At the same time Uspensky observed that, given an opportunity, 
the peasant easily became a “fist,” that is, a callous exploiter of 
the Mir—the commune. The aching note in Uspensky’s writ¬ 
ings was the more convincing since the author belonged no 
longer to the gentry but to the people. After the emancipation 
of the peasants (in 1861) the field of literature was invaded by 
“commoners,” who treated the people from personal knowledge 
and experience, not through the idealizing prism of the penitent 
noble. The ranks of the Intelligentsia began to be interspersed 
with direct representatives of the people, who discussed the 
peasant with brutal frankness and unvarnished realism. After 
Uspensky and Reshetnikov came Chekhov, who dealt the 
Narodniki a severe blow with his Peasants (1897), an objective 
presentation of rustic stupidity, callousness, drunkenness, and 
ignorance. Still later, after the revolution of 1905, there ap¬ 
peared a special genre of literature, presenting the peasants as 
drunkards, rogues and brutes. Notable among these produc¬ 
tions were Bunin’s Village and Rodionov’s Our Crime. 

Narodnichestvo had owed its success in thought and in ac¬ 
tion to a combination of interdependent circumstances. The 
romantic idyl of an intrinsically Socialistic and Christian village, 
accepted as an autochthonous Russian institution, and signifying 
a peculiar road of development for Russia, could exist in the 
minds of the Intelligentsia as long as this Intelligentsia (1) 
consisted of penitent gentry apt to idealize the source of their 
sick conscience, who (2) worshipped the “Communistic and 
Christian” Mir and Obshchina from hearsay and pure theory, 
and (3) believed that it was the destiny of Russia to remain 
forever agricultural, rustic, non-capitalistic. The downfall of 
Narodnichestvo came in consequence of the change which had 


8 Leonid Andreyev 

taken place in that combination of interdependent circumstances. 
Toward the end of the nineteenth century (i) Russian writers 
and readers were of heterogeneous class-composition, and among 
them the non-gentry element was strongly represented; (2) the 
economic and moral disintegration of the village had become a 
grave commonplace; the rapidly growing capitalistic industry, 
which the Government lavishly endowed, protected, and fostered, 
blew to pieces the Narodnik myth about Russia’s “peculiar des¬ 
tiny,” inundated the cities with swarms of starving peasants 
seeking employment in factories and foundries, and thus created 
a soil ready to receive the seed of Marxian, proletarian So¬ 
cialism. 

In Chekhov we find reflected the transition period between 
the village and city motive in literature. Of peasant stock, 
Chekhov at the same time represented that Intelligentsia in 
which the moods and attitudes of the gentry prevailed. To his 
very end (in 1904) he remained a Vosmidesyatnik—that is, 
a writer of the eighties, of that “gray” decade of soilless men 
split by inner contradictions, worn out by futile strivings and 
aimless whining, defined by a contemporary satirist (Saltykov- 
Shchedrin) as “boiled souls” and “neither fish nor flesh.” 
Though by no means a rural writer, Chekhov in his descriptions 
of practically all walks of Russian life preserved in a measure 
the attitude of a noble, the point of view of a Turgenev, the 
twilight sadness that characterizes a moribund race. For the 
Russian gentry was doomed both as an economic factor and as 
an intellectual force, giving place to the third estate for the 
former function, and merging, as an Intelligentsia, in the multi¬ 
tude of “commoners.” Chekhov’s last drama, The Cherry 
Orchard, sounded the swan song of rural Russia, Russia of the 
ancestral estates, of the “Noblemen’s Nests,” of the Tatianas 
and Lizas, of the Lavretskys, Oblomovs and Rostovs. Lopak- 
hin, an upstart capitalist, had driven out the gentle, helpless, 
impractical hereditary possessors of the estate, to transform it 
into a soap factory. The curtain fell to the sounds of the ax 
hewing down the sentimentalized, useless trees of the cherry 
orchard. Chekhov tolled the requiem for all that Russia which 


Introduction 


9 

lived, felt, thought and acted according to the traditions of a 
patriarchal nobility, of an aristocratic Intelligentsia. 

Meanwhile the new age, the city voice, was announced—not 
with sad regrets, but with triumphant shouts—by Maxim Gorky. 
Free from traditions,‘from cultural associations and bonds, and 
enamored of open, unfettered, unconventional life, Gorky 
ushered into the melancholy salon of Russian literature his 
band of tramps and vagabonds. With their mud-covered boots, 
or more often barefooted, this golden brigade unceremoniously 
trampled the literary parquet, and with lusty lungs roared 
defiance to existing conditions and conventions. Gorky’s first 
heroes belonged not to the gentry, nor to the bourgeoisie, not 
even to the fourth estate, but to the fifth estate, to the Lumpen- 
proletariat. In these Gorky found a suitable mouthpiece for 
his negative burden. He wished to disperse the melancholy, 
Chekhovian atmosphere of passive whimpering, of neurasthenic 
introspection, of Hamlet-like rumination, of dabbling in old 
slogans and in outworn truths. His care-free philosophers 
neither pleaded nor asked for sympathy, but hurled their con¬ 
tempt into the faces of smug possessors of property, declaring 
that the only thing which mattered was individual freedom, and 
that this freedom could be attained under any political or 
economic conditions. They sang hymns to Man who can make 
life what he wills it to be, and they despised those who were 
chained to their occupations, particularly the peasant, slave of 
the soil. It was a new and vigorous note, and fell on willing 
ears during the nineties. For although individualism seemed 
out of place in a decade of triumphant Marxism, the ultra- 
individualistic young Gorky won the hearts of his countrymen 
with the unheard-of freshness and energy of his protesting mes¬ 
sage. Acclaimed as a leader, as a stormy petrel of the revolu¬ 
tion, Gorky, indeed, modified gradually his extreme individual¬ 
ism, combining it with collectivism, and finally dedicated his muse 
to the toiling masses. He became the centre of a large group of 
young writers (Kuprin, Bunin, Serafimovich, Gusev-Orenburg- 
sky, Teleshev, Chirikov, Veresayev, Youshkevich, Skitalets and 
others), who for the most part depicted city life, the factory, 


io Leonid Andreyev 

the railroad, the seaport, dwelling upon the new phase of Rus- 
sian reality—capitalistic industry and its concomitant issues. 

This cursory survey of Russian literary tendencies brings us 
to the twentieth century. To make this outline complete, a 
word may be said about those few artists who have stood apart 
from all movements and endeavored to serve “pure” art. Such 
poets as Tyutchev, Fet, Merezhkovsky, Minsky, Hippius, Bal¬ 
mont, Bryusov, Bely, Blok and a dozen others, remained in their 
lofty towers through whose stained-glass windows they visual¬ 
ized a world of their own. Deliberately they divorced them¬ 
selves from reality, from the “street,” and consequently life, 
the “street” reciprocated. 2 We may therefore pass over the 
“art for art’s sake” movement in Russia, as an exotic plant of 
great beauty, which had an extremely limited appeal and influ¬ 
ence. Aside from this phenomenon, Russian literature, we may 
now state by way of a resume, has had for its motto: Service. 
Service to the established church and to the theocratic throne, 
to the end of the seventeenth century. Beginning with Peter, 
to the latter part of the eighteenth century, literature served 
the new order in the role of a hired courtier. Novikov and 
Radishchev introduced the anti-government tendency, in the 
service of the people. This tendency has remained in power to 
the present day, with certain variations in its application. Thus, 
till 1861 literature served the cause of the emancipation of the 
serfs. The peasant, freed on paper, but economically and polit¬ 
ically disabled, required the service and worship of the Narod- 
niki through the larger second part of the nineteenth century. 
With the advent of capitalism and industry, Russian literature 
became largely dedicated to the service of the city proletariat, 
of its problems, struggles and aspirations. What saved Rus¬ 
sian literature from becoming a didactic sermon, was the genius 
of its creators who remained artists under all circumstances. 

During the nineties Russian society underwent grave search- 

2 In times of great public events the ivory tower of the Russian “pure” artists 
would shake perceptibly. The revolution of 1905 provoked response on the part 
of Merezhkovsky, Minsky, Bryusov and others. Bely and Blok abandoned later 
their splendid isolation, and have directed the attention of the young generation, 
within the last decade, toward social and political problems. 


Introduction 


n 


ings of the heart. Compared with the preceding decade of 
stagnation, of “petty deeds,’’ of cowardly slogans, of pseudo- 
Tolstoyan nonresistance and self-perfection precepts, this period 
was one of storm and stress. On one hand, economic changes 
revolutionized prevailing attitudes and conceptions. The great 
famine of 1890-1891, which, complicated with epidemics, 
devastated whole rural districts, awoke the somnolent Intel¬ 
ligentsia to the realization of the need of action, not merely of 
words, for the destruction of the order responsible for starving 
the granary of Europe. The revolutionary spirit was enhanced 
by the simultaneous growth of industries and the swelling of the 
ranks of the proletariat by multitudes of famine-stricken peas¬ 
ants. The Intelligentsia found a grateful field in secretly organ¬ 
izing workmen, propagating Marxian Socialism among them, 
and waging political and economic warfare through strikes and 
demonstrations. On the other hand, powerful currents of 
thought stimulated mental activity. The Marxians, represented 
by such brilliant publicists as Plekhanov (Beltov), Struve, 
Tugan-Baranovsky, Bulgakov, Lenin (Tulin, Ilyin), and other 
significant names and pseudonyms, carried on a lively and victo¬ 
rious campaign against the Narodniki. The Intelligentsia 
seemed overwhelmingly converted to the materialistic interpre¬ 
tation of history, yet they gravitated, with Russian inconsistency, 
toward individualistic thinkers. Gorky’s sketches and Ibsen’s 
plays enjoyed an immense popularity and wielded a mighty in¬ 
fluence. Toward the end of that decade the Russian intellectual 
atmosphere had become saturated with Nietzsche. 

Life was full of contradictions. Modern capitalism under an 
archaic absolutist despotism. A wistful generation eager for 
thought and action, overbrimming with energy and idealism, 
forced into silence and inactivity, crammed into the Procrustean 
bed of the censored word and of a clipped, distorted education. 
The dominant doctrine of Marx, reducing history and life to 
purely economic processes, and scoffing at the role of the individ¬ 
ual, and at the same time numerous heroic deeds by revolu¬ 
tionary sons and daughters of aristocratic and bourgeois families, 
sacrificing their lives against the elementary economic wisdom 


12 Leonid Andreyev 

of class interests and class consciousness. Perhaps in no other 
country could there exist such a contradictio in adjecto as 
Nietzschean Socialism. How can one reconcile Nietzsche s 
aristocraticism, his hatred for democracy, his contempt for the 
rabble, his glorification of inequality, with the levelling col¬ 
lectivism of the Socialist teaching! But the Russian intellectual 
has ever been eclectically synthetic. He gathers honey from 
various flowers, mixes it, and concocts a composite meal to his 
taste. One may add that his taste is nearly always of the 
negative variety. In the twenties and thirties the Russian intel¬ 
lectual borrowed from Byron his note of revolt against society, 
the only Byronic feature which appealed to him. Of Marx he 
eagerly adopted the negative side, namely, his critique of the 
capitalistic order, while finding difficulty in digesting his posi¬ 
tive doctrines, such as his interpretation of history. Gorky’s 
tone of rebellion won admiration, regardless of the positive 
tendencies one might infer from his writings. The rugged 
Scandinavians, from Ibsen to Hamsun, always found in Russia 
an audience eager to drink in their words of protest against the 
monster of organized society and public opinion. In Nietzsche, 
too, the Russian perfunctorily saluted the superman, but ar¬ 
dently embraced the philosopher’s negative teaching, his trans¬ 
valuation of accepted values relative to institutions and beliefs. 

In this chaotic jumble of ideas and attitudes a voice was 
needed, which would emanate from one “above the battle.” 
Not a voice of one who dwelt in a stained-glass tower, but of 
one who, while remaining with both feet on earth and intensely 
living through its tribulations and tragedies, could analyze and 
vivisect life with a keen eye and a sharp lancet. A voice of 
one who stood outside parties and movements, and could there¬ 
fore be a merciless observer, not bothering about service to any 
institution or to any class or group of people. A voice which 
would not be drowned in popular outbursts and blinding pas¬ 
sions, but would ring clearly and constantly a note of interroga¬ 
tion, a why and wherefore as to life and its value, as to man, 
his destinies and beliefs and quests. 

Such a voice came from Leonid Andreyev. 


II 


General characteristics of Andreyev as a writer.—Philosophic problems.— 
Unanswered questions.—Lack of detachment.—Gravity.—Un¬ 
evenness.—Multiplicity of styles.—Reason for his influence.— 
One of the rank and file.—Perpetual tocsin.—Lunacharsky’s 
estimate of Andreyev’s position. 

Unlike the majority of his predecessors and contemporaries, 
Leonid Andreyev advocates no definite political or moral creed. 
His problems are not those of particular individuals under 
particular conditions. Nearly every story or play of his pre¬ 
sents an illustration or postulation of some universal and general 
philosophic question, the plot and the dramatis personae serv¬ 
ing merely as incidental accessories. He is mainly occupied 
with the problem of life, of its purpose and value, and he ap¬ 
proaches his problem with no ready solutions or definite formulas 
and prescriptions. Everlastingly querying and setting forth 
questions, he quails before the task of answering them. Usually 
he leaves them open. Only rarely, and then hesitatingly, does 
he hint at a possible solution, in a veiled and ambiguous man¬ 
ner. The solution itself does not appear to be of import to the 
author. 

Andreyev fails to give a definite answer because he lacks a 
fixed philosophic system. To create, or even to embrace and 
follow to the end, a philosophic theory, one must possess the 
faculty of detachment, one must be able to regard things in 
perspective. Andreyev is capable of searching into the reason 
and nature and law of things only while in the very midst of 
things, crying his “Wherefore” de profundis. He cannot 
divorce himself from fleeting reality in order to adopt and faith¬ 
fully adhere to a complete philosophic system, which aspires to 
settle all difficulties once and for all. His mistress is neither 
philosophy nor art, but fickle, ever-evolving life. This mistress 

13 


14 Leonid Andreyev 

he serves and contemplates, adores and hates, doubts and denies, 
repudiates and glorifies—from close observation. Hence 
Andreyev’s meditation is grave, too grave for the non-Russian 
reader. He is never at ease in Zion. His is not the joyous 
wisdom of Nietzsche, one of his most kindred spirits. Still 
less does he suggest the Gallic gracefulness of Anatole France, 
who contemplates our human follies from a lofty tower, and 
chuckles amusedly at the silly comedy of life, minding Mon¬ 
taigne’s aphorism: “How sweet to recline on a pillow of 
doubts!” 

This gravity, this proximity to his subject matter, weighs 
heavily on Andreyev’s art. His art suffers from too much 
earnestness, from lack of light-footed springiness, from lack of 
the sense of humor which comes with aloofness. 1 His works 
are not evenly artistic. At times he shrieks, horrified, and 
wishing to horrify his reader. Nature is to him usually, as it 
always is to Thomas Hardy, blind, evil, fatal. But while 
Hardy suggests this notion, Andreyev drives it into your head 
with a sledgehammer. He often succumbs to words, and heaps 
up adjectives and similes connoting terror, horror, evil, mad¬ 
ness, to the point of dizziness. “Madness and horror!”—the 
refrain recurring in The Red Laugh, might stand as a motto 
for many of his works. In his weak moments he toots and 
bangs and waves dazzling fustian rags—and then he is least 
convincing. At any event, such truculent readers as Tolstoy 
sneer at screams: “Andreyev says ‘Boo!’ But I am not 
scared.” He sorely lacks the chaste subtlety of Chekhov’s 
medium, and he knows nothing of the early Maeterlinck’s words 
bathed in silence. Has Andreyev a style? If he has one it is 
as fluid, as changeable, as variegated as his themes and motives. 
He is interested primarily in conveying his ideas, or rather his 
question marks; and as to the medium, the vehicle—all means 
are justifiable. Thus we find in Andreyev a wide range of 

1 Such of his attempts as The Pretty Sabine Women, Ben Tobit, Love to You /1 
Neighbor, and a few others, are exceptions, and most of them are too heavily 
laden with satire to be humorous. 


Introduction 


15 

stylistic variations, from extreme realism bordering on natural¬ 
ism to a symbolism at times impenetrably obscure. Occasion¬ 
ally he even employs mutually contradictory methods in one and 
the same work, as in the allegorical Life of Man, where amidst 
a symbolistic setting we are treated to the most realistic shrieks 
of a woman in travail. 

Why, then, is Andreyev one of the most compelling of 
modern writers? We have indicated that he bears no definite 
moral or social message, that he has not created any philosophy, 
that he has not discovered any new truths, that he is afflicted 
with lack of detachment and perspective, with lack of reserve 
and of a uniform style, that he is, in short, neither an inventive 
thinker nor a perfect artist. What is the reason for his grow¬ 
ing influence? Why has he enjoyed such an important place 
among his compatriots, that most exacting, most expectant, most 
subtle audience? 

The reason for his compelling influence lies in the very mi¬ 
nuses enumerated. He addresses us not from above, not with 
the decalogue tone of a Tolstoy, not as an Olympian Goethe, 
not as a condescending scoffer of Anatole France’s calibre, not 
as an artist par excellence like the early Maeterlinck, not as a 
Nietzsche hurling his thunder over our heads into future genera¬ 
tions. Andreyev speaks to us as one of the rank and file. He 
dwells in our midst, in this vale of tears, a fellow-sufferer, a 
fellow-doubter. He is more articulate than most of us are, 
hence he utters aloud our whys and wherefores. But he is not 
too articulate, not too artistic, not too perfect in employing his 
medium, to aggrandize this medium at the cost of the issue. 
He is too near to us mortals to be given a place in the Pantheon. 
His is the human voice, the voice of the average intellectual of 
the twentieth century, restless, questioning, evaluating, sick at 
heart of disappointment and disparagement, yet ever seeking, 
always searching—if only for the sake of the quest itself. 

Andreyev is a compelling author, but not one who can be 
“adored,” who is “popular” with the masses. For he neither 
flatters nor sugar-coats. Unlike Dostoyevsky, he does not even 


16 Leonid Andreyev 

pity the victims whose misery and pain he depicts without re¬ 
serve. Pity usually has to come down, whereas Andreyev is 
on the level of the victims. In Russia, where the writer has 
been looked up to as a guide in all walks of life, political creeds 
included, Andreyev made no effort to utter popular slogans. 
He considered Gorky “the most honest, the most sincere Rus¬ 
sian writer,” but he resented Gorky’s political sentiments and 
penchants as endangering his artistic freedom. Andreyev, until 
he began to fail as an artist, stood aloof from political parties, 
remained outside the Revolution. To be fettered with a 
definite “Aye” is not the lot of the eternal questioner. A tocsin 
he remained to the very end, a perpetual alarm clock disturb¬ 
ing his fellow men, forcing them to wakeful introspection, to an 
alert transvaluation of accepted values. 

The failure of the abortive revolution of 1905 brought 
about a dual reaction in the ranks of the Intelligentsia. On 
one hand, an attempt was made to replace frustrated idealism 
by an appeal to the instinct of the gratification of the flesh. 
Artsibashev’s Saninism, or glorification of the amoral male, 
Sologub’s sadistic lyrics and prose, Kuzmin’s fragrant pane¬ 
gyrics to sodomism—such were some of the currents in vogue 
after the fall of the Moscow barricades. On the other hand, 
a revival of mystic religiosity was to be observed among the so- 
called Bogoiskateli (God-seekers), the group of Dmitri Mer- 
ezhkovsky, his wife Zinaida Hippius, Philosophov, Bulgakov 
and others. These sought after a synthesis between heaven 
and earth, between Christ and Dionysus, between Greek Cathol¬ 
icism and Western culture. During this noisome period An¬ 
dreyev held his own, and went on ringing his alarm bell, spur¬ 
ring man’s conscience to a merciless analysis of life and its 
illusions, tearing off the veils and masks from luring phantoms, 
complacent beliefs, narcotic doctrinairism and cocksure isms. 

A. Lunacharsky, for years a pillar in the Bolshevik faction, 
and a keen though one-sided critic of art and letters, has attacked 
Andreyev time and again for his “philistinism” (read: anti- 
Socialism). Yet in the collection of essays, Literary Disinte - 


Introduction 


17 

gration , 2 Lunacharsky has this to say concerning the significance 
of Andreyev during the morbid years following the revolution 
of 1905: 

While some of us, scenting the breath of the Plague, carry on a loath¬ 
some orgy of perverted instincts, and endeavor to warm up their benumbed 
sensuality by means of sodomy, Sadism, and all sorts of abomination; 
while others burn candles and send up smoke to heaven and into the eyes 
of their neighbors, lisping variegated psalms and sermons—Leonid 
Andreyev, in a leathern mask, black and terrible, with a long hook in his 
hands, goes up and down the city streets, rummages in heaps of corpses 
and semi-corpses, hurls the rotten flesh into a large pit, pours lye on it, 
bums it. Should he at this performance perchance deal with his plague- 
hook a final blow to one who still rattles—what matter? Burn the 
corpses. Purify life. 

This passage, suggestively indicative of Andreyev’s role in 
Russian life and letters, fittingly concludes our outline of his 
general characteristics. 

2 Literaturny Raspad, St. Petersburg, 1908. 


PART I 


THE LIFE AND PERSONALITY OF 
ANDREYEV 





I 

ANDREYEV’S CHILDHOOD, BOYHOOD AND YOUTH 


Eventfulness of Andreyev’s lifetime.—Adumbrative traits.—Life in Orel. 

—Non-conformity and discontent.—Death of father.—At the St. 
Petersburg university.—Hunger, and first literary attempts.— 
Suicides.—Addiction to drink.—At the Moscow university.— 
Painting.—Failure as a lawyer.—Journalism.—Ideal court re¬ 
porter.—Feuilletons. 

Leonid Andreyev died in the year 1919. The proximity of 
this date limits somewhat our perspective, and diminishes the 
chances for absolute objectivity and sureness with which we may 
approach events historically crystallized. Yet the available 
material enables us to draw a fairly comprehensive picture of 
the author’s life and career, without pretense to perfection. 
Andreyev’s life and work are so interwoven, so inter-reflective, 
that neither can be adequately understood without a comple¬ 
mentary study of the other. The forthcoming pages attempt 
to portray his life, on the basis of autobiographic material and 
of trustworthy testimony by those who knew him. 

The forty-eight years of Andreyev’s life mark significant 
decades in the development of modern Russia. The year of 
his birth (1871) ushered in the decade of active Narodnichestvo, 
when the Narod, the people—that is, the peasantry—was deified 
and worshipped in literature as in life. In his teens he wit¬ 
nessed the grayness of the eighties, the decade of “small deeds 
and petty souls,” which came in the wake of the romantic re¬ 
pentant noble and of the romantic terrorists who climactically 
crowned their era with the execution, in the name of the Narod, 
of Alexander II (1881). In the nineties, his college years and 
first literary steps coincided with the fin de siecle currents of in¬ 
tellectual Russia, stamped with the influences of Marx, Nietzsche 
and Ibsen, influences which paradoxically intermingled. An- 

21 


22 Leonid Andreyev 

dreyev’s talent ripened in the first decade of the present cen¬ 
tury, years pregnant with hopes and disappointments, years of 
“madness and horror,” of war and revolution, of polluted 
ideals and sacrifices rendered vain. Finally, his last nine years 
passed under the accumulating clouds of doom, of the pending 
collision between the two Russias—the privileged and the dis¬ 
abled. He lived to see the discharge of the storm cloud, the 
clash of the old structure, and the clumsy attempts at rebuilding 
by the groping new ruling class. Then his heart burst, to the 
accompaniment of cannon and bombs baptizing the new Russia. 

A photograph of Andreyev at the age of three or four years 
presents the child sitting in the relaxed posture of a tired old 
man, with drooping arms, with a disproportionately large head, 
with dark close-set eyes of a grave, almost inverted look, with 
a large, somewhat pouting upper lip tightly shutting on the lower 
one. Lvov-Rogachevsky quotes Andreyev’s mother to the ef¬ 
fect that even in his early childhood her son looked “very seri¬ 
ous,” this seriousness taking later on the character of melan¬ 
choly, which alternated with moments of stormy gamboling and 
reckless escapades. Thus he was fond of skating on the most 
^dangerous places of the town river, which was close to his home, 
at times when “the ice cracked and gave way under foot.” 1 
Mme. Anna Andreyev quotes her husband’s recollections of his 
early life, from which it appears that outside of his melan¬ 
choly moments he was a regular “bad boy,” fighting bloody 
battles with the neighborhood lads, stealing apples in orchards, 
gambling with buttons, skittles, and even cards. According to 
his mother, among the boy’s hobbies was a passion for the 
stage, manifested already in his sixth year. They took him 
to all first performances, and he was the pet of the leading ac¬ 
tresses. At home he would gather the children of the vicinity, 
and arrange dramatic spectacles. 2 Mme. Andreyev qualifies 
the last statement with the remark that most of these “spec¬ 
tacles” were played by Leonid solo, himself personifying all the 
dramatic characters. She adds that his “first passionate love” 

1 Lvov-Rogachevsky, Two Truths (Dvye pravdy), p. 17. Petrograd, 1914. 

2 Ibid. 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 23 

was for a circus Apollo, a bareback rider, whom he watched 
through a crack in the wall; he embodied this impression in 
Bezano, in He Who Gets Slapped. If to these traits we add 
the hunger for books, which developed in him with his sixth 
year, 3 we may construct an image of the boy Andreyev—his 
serious, pensive disposition, his melancholy brooding alternat¬ 
ing with outbursts of vivacity, his literary interests, his histrionic 
predilection. Here is an adumbration of Andreyev the writer, 
the denier and lover of life, the personifier of multifarious 
characters. 

The city of Orel (pronounced: Aryol), the capital of the 
province of the same name, is a typical small town in central 
Russia. Turgenev lived in that province, and one may visual¬ 
ize it through the sad, chaste landscapes of the Notes of a 
Huntsman. The open spaces of Orel left in Andreyev a crav¬ 
ing for broad vistas, for the unwalled outdoors. “We of Orel” 
is the title of a chapter in The Seven That Were Hanged , where 
Tsiganok, the brigand, expresses through his savage, blood¬ 
freezing whistle the freedom and abandon of Andreyev’s native 
province. In The City, The Curse of the Beast , Sawa f and 
wherever he deals with urban life and civilization, Andreyev in¬ 
variably voices his hatred for the stifling atmosphere of the big 
city, with its depersonalized, callously indifferent human beings. 
When Andreyev the reporter leaves Moscow for a short vaca¬ 
tion to the country, his style acquires an unwonted freshness, 
vigor, fullness, 4 just as it does in Peter in the Country , when the 
“boy” of the barber shop faces real nature for the first time 
in his life. At the height of his success, Andreyev carries out 

3 In his autobiographic sketch given to Fidler for First Literary Steps ( Per - 
vyie literaturnyie shagi), p. 28 (Petrograd, 1911), Andreyev wrote: “Reading 
books I began at the age of six, and I read an extraordinary amount, whatever 
came to hand; in my seventh year I subscribed to a library. With years my 
passion for reading grew ever stronger, and at the age of ten or twelve I already 
experienced the feeling familiar to the provincial reader, which I may call nos¬ 
talgia for a book.” In his later life Andreyev showed his love and even rever¬ 
ence for books on many occasions. One may recall his sketch, The Book, or the 
dialogue of Professor Storitsyn, in the play by that name, with his degenerate son. 

4 “In the South,” “Volga and Kama.” Written about 1909 for The Moscow 
Daily Courier, and later included in volume I of Works, pp. 177-208 (Prosvesh- 
cheniye). 


24 Leonid Andreyev 

the dream of his life, 5 and builds for himself a “castle” in spa¬ 
cious Finland, with unlimited horizons, far from the noisy city. 

His love for nature and for unfenced spaces was coupled 
with an inherent reluctance to conform to prescribed regulations 
and standards. In the Orel gymnasium, the author tells us, he 
was “a poor pupil . . . always at the bottom of his class.” 6 
One can hardly ascribe this circumstance to Andreyev’s stu¬ 
pidity. His poor standing in that secondary school was re¬ 
corded not only in his scholarship but also in his conduct—a 
phase of nonconformity which subsequently tinged nearly all of 
his important writings. Young Leonid evidently chafed under 
the ferula of the “classicists,” the officially sanctioned educators 
during the administration of Count Dmitri Tolstoy. 7 From 
the drab walls of the classroom, from the dull pages of thought- 
deadening textbooks, the boy yearned for air and sun and skies. 
In his autobiography quoted above Andreyev asserted that the 
“most pleasant moments” he could recall of his gymnasium 
years were the intervals between hours of instruction and those 
occasions when he was “sent out of the classroom”: 

In the long empty corridor there was a sonorous silence playing with 
the monotonous sound of footsteps. On both sides were doors closing off 
the classrooms, full of people. A ray of sunlight, a free ray, would burst 
through a crack and play with the dust raised during one of the shifts 

5 . . . “I mean to build a castle in Norway among the mountains: far below, the 
fiord; high up on the steep cliff, the castle ... I will build a castle fit for an 
emperor.” The Life of Man, Act II ( Works, — VII, pp. 76, 77). 

6 From his short autobiographical sketch, From My Life (Iz moyey zhizni), in 
the January issue of the Petrograd monthly, Everybody's Magazine ( Zhurnal dlya 
•vsekh ). 

7 Since 1866, and practically till 1905, the main purpose of the Russian Ministers 
of Public Instruction consisted in occupying the minds of the students with the 
study of “harmless” subjects, and thus preventing them from pursuing “dangerous” 
reading and thinking. In Tolstoy’s classic gymnasia, Greek and Latin took the 
most prominent place. “The students were to gain a thorough knowledge of the 
grammatical and syntactical peculiarities of the ancient languages, and to be ca¬ 
pable of rapidly translating under dictation difficult passages from Russian into 
Latin or Greek. . . . Instruction in Church Slavic was introduced at the expense 
of Russian. Natural science was eliminated, the hours for history, geography, and 
modern languages were contracted, and the study of modern languages was de¬ 
clared of secondary importance.”—A. Kornilov, Modern Russian History — II, pp. 
168, 169. New York, 1917. 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 25 

and not yet settled. All this was mysterious, interesting, and full of a 
peculiar, hidden meaning. 8 

This retrospective account may have been couched in terms 
too complex and labored for the actual experience of a small 
boy, but it fits well with Andreyev’s temperament, his predilec¬ 
tion for solitary meditation and for discovering “hidden mean¬ 
ings” in everyday occurrences. It is evident that at an early 
age he developed a dislike for his humdrum environment, and 
sought to transport himself into a different world created in his 
imagination. Thus he recalls in 1908: 

When I was a child I loved America. Perhaps Cooper and Mayne 
Reid, my favorite authors in my childhood days, were responsible for this. 
I was always planning to run away to America. 9 

Fate, however, forced Andreyev to turn his attention from 
the romantic Indians to prosaic reality. His father, a surveyor 
by profession, “of tremendous physical power,” died suddenly, 
at the age of forty-two, leaving the family in poverty. 10 Or¬ 
phaned while still a gymnasium student, Andreyev had an early 
taste of material privation, but it was while attending the uni¬ 
versity of Petrograd, where he. studied law, that he “suffered 
extreme want.” 11 He went hungry for days, brooding, alone, 


8 From My Life. 

9 Conversation recorded by Mr. Herman Bernstein, in his preface to Satan’s 
Diary, p. xii (N. Y., 1920). Mme. Andreyev tells me that as a boy her husband 
did run away to America, but he went only as far as Petrograd, whence he was 
brought back to Orel, to face his angry parents. 

10 From My Life. Also in First Literary Steps (p. 28), where he wrote: “My 
late father was a man of a clear mind, of a strong will, and of great fearlessness. 
He had no inclination for art in any form, but books he loved and read exten¬ 
sively, while nature he regarded with the profoundest interest and with the warm 
love which was due to his peasant-squire blood. He was a fine gardener, dreamt 
of the country all his life, yet died in the city . . . very early, at the age of 
forty-two (suddenly, from hemorrhage of the brain) ; in the country he might 
have lived to a hundred years.” One will note that Leonid Andreyev met with a 
similar death. 

Regarding the “peasant-squire blood” of his father: A footnote on Page 245 
of Vengerov’s Russian Literature of the 20th Century (Russkaya literatura XX 
•vyeka) states that Andreyev senior was the son of a marshal of nobility and a 
peasant (serf) girl. 

11 Ibid, 


26 Leonid Andreyev 

self-centred, unable to approach his comrades or acquaintances 
with any request for assistance. 12 One can trace the impres¬ 
sions of those days in most of Andreyev’s early stories dealing 
with the life of poverty-stricken, solitary individuals, also in his 
Days of Our Life f the play portraying student life, where the 
character of Onufry is autobiographical (according to Mme. 
Andreyev). “I then wrote my first story, about a hungry stu¬ 
dent,” he relates. 13 “I cried when I wrote it. In the editorial 
office they returned me the manuscript with laughter. So the 
story was never published.” In another place Andreyev writes 
of the same incident: “My first literary experiment was due 
not so much to my infatuation with literature as to hunger. It 
was during my first year at the university of Petrograd; I suf¬ 
fered severe hunger, and in despair wrote an atrocious story— 
Concerning a Hungry Student. At the office of The IVeek 
(Niedielya) , whither I brought my story in person, they 
returned it to me with a smile. I do not remember what 
has become of it. Later I made a few earnest attempts at 
breaking into print: I sent stories to The Northern Mes¬ 
senger (Syeverny Vyestnik) , to The Field (Niva), and I 
cannot recall to what other periodicals, and from everywhere I 
received rejections, on the whole justifiable—the things were 
wretched. These failures affected me in such a way that by the 
time of my graduation from the university—that is, at the 
age of twenty-seven—I gave up all thought of literature, and 
decided in earnest to become an attorney.” 14 

In view of his boyhood dreams, the discouragement which 
Andreyev met at his first literary attempts must have pained him 
sharply. We have mentioned the fact that he was a voracious 
reader even before his teens. At the age of thirteen or four¬ 
teen his reading assumed encyclopedic dimensions. “My con¬ 
scious attitude to books I consider to have begun',” he recorded 
later, “with my reading of Pisarev, soon followed by Tolstoy’s 
What Is My Faith ? This took place while I was in the fourth 

12 Ibid. 

13 ibid. 

14 First Literary Steps , p. 30. 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 27 

or fifth class of the gymnasium, and I then became simulta¬ 
neously a sociologist, a philosopher, a natural scientist, and 
everything else. I bit into Hartmann and Schopenhauer, and at 
the same time learned by heart Moleschott’s book on food. At 
twenty I was well acquainted with all of Russian and foreign 
literatures (translated). Certain authors, as, for instance, 
Dickens, I reread about ten times.” 15 The desire to emulate 
his favorite authors, a desire common to youthful readers, was 
for a time checked by a rival passion for painting, of which more 
presently. “For the first time I began to think about becoming 
a writer,” we read in his autobiography, “when I was in my 
seventeenth year. To this time belongs a characteristic entry 
in my diary: it outlines with wonderful correctness, though in 
puerile expressions, the literary path which I have followed and 
am still pursuing to this day. ... I recalled the diary by ac¬ 
cident, when I was already a writer, with difficulty found that 
page, and was struck by the preciseness and the far from child¬ 
ish seriousness of the prediction which has been fulfilled.” 16 
He adds that I. A. Belousov, the director of the gymnasium, 
who was also teacher of Russian, regarded Andreyev’s compo¬ 
sitions very favorably. 

Andreyev cites an interesting detail as to his literary fiascos 
during the Petrograd period of his university years. He re¬ 
lates the substance of a story he sent to the Northern Messen¬ 
ger, then the organ of modernist literature: 

My student years were passed in poverty. To this time belongs one 
of my first attempts at fiction. I wrote a story under the title, A Naked 
Soul. ... As far as I am able to orient myself in modern tendencies, 
the story was characteristically decadent, and curiously enough, it was 
written before Russian Decadence had manifested itself in any noticeable 
way. I remember that there was portrayed a very old man who had ac¬ 
quired the tragic faculty of reading men’s hearts. There was nothing 
hidden for him in any person. Naturally, the more this “naked soul” 

15 Ibid, p. 29. According to Mme. Andreyev, Alexandre Dumas remained her 
husband’s favorite to his very end; he reread him a number of times. 

16 Ibid, p. 30. This is probably the entry of which he speaks in his diary shortly 
before his death. Infra, p. 75. 


28 Leonid Andreyev 

came in contact with men, the more tragic grew its impressions. As far 
as I recall, there was nothing left for him in the end but to commit 
suicide. Among other things I remember this detail: The old man saw 
a fellow throwing himself under a passing train. And, mind, he visual¬ 
ized what the severed head was thinking. I sent this story to the North¬ 
ern Messenger , and I remember the letter of the critic, A. Volynsky, in 
which he rejected my manuscript for the reason that it was “too fantastic, 
too out of the ordinary,” or something to this effect. 17 

A Naked Soul suggests much of the later Andreyev, both in 
its fantastic element, and in its treatment of thought as a pow¬ 
erful, clairvoyant force. Suggestive, too, is the end of the 
hero. Suicide as an attempted solution of life’s problem fig¬ 
ures in some of his early stories, and also in his personal life. 
In his first autobiographical sketch Andreyev states that in 1894 
he tried to shoot himself, as a result of which attempt he con¬ 
tracted a heart disease, “not dangerous but obdurate and trou¬ 
blesome.” 18 We know of at least two other such attempts, 
presumably one before and one after the shooting. Lvov- 
Rogachevsky laconically states that “one time he lay across the 
ties of a railroad track, and let a train pass over him; another 
time he tried to shoot himself, and still later he wounded him¬ 
self in the chest with a knife.” 19 Of the first adventure we 
have Andreyev’s own story, as quoted by Brusyanin: 

I became infatuated with Tolstoy’s What Is My Faithf and ploughed 

17 Quoted by A. Izmailov, in his Literary Olympus (Literaturny Olimp), pp. 
243, 244. 

18 From My Life. Andreyev’s heart trouble was more 9erious than it might ap¬ 
pear from his own account. Says Lvov-Rogachevsky: “Andreyev’s weak heart 
explains in part his convincing portrayal of the sensation of horror. I purposely 
inquired of the author concerning his ailment. It has tormented him for moie 
than twelve years. Now [written in 1914] his heart attacks have almost ceased. 
He would often wake at night with the notion that presently he was to die. At 
times he began to write a story, obsessed with the idea that it had to be finished 
promptly, in view of the approach of death. The heart attacks used to be excru¬ 
ciating.”— Two Truths, p. 26. 

Mme. Andreyev has told me that her husband’s heart trouble was of a “purely 
psychological, nervous nature.” Granted that this ailment was not physiological, 
but the result of self-suggestion, the fact remains that Andreyev suffered from it 
mentally, at any rate. His letters and diary toward the end of his life abound in 
complaints about his “poor heart.” 

19 Two Truths, p. 25. 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 29 

through this book of great seekings. ... I read it, studied it, but was 
not converted to Tolstoy’s faith. The positive part of his teaching—his 
^ faith in God, the perfection of one’s personal life for the sake of a single 
Him, God—did not appeal to me, and I rejected it as something foreign 
to myself. Thus I retained only the negative side of Tolstoy’s teaching. 
I kept asking myself: What is the purpose of my life, since I have no 
yearning for God, in accordance with the substance of the system of “the 
great writer of the Russian land”? [Turgenev’s words addressed to 
Tolstoy.] Well, on a certain clear May night I was in a youthful com¬ 
pany. The party had been jolly, noisy, interesting. We were returning 
along the railroad tracks. Some of the crowd were still arguing, unable 
to part with the subject discussed at the picnic. Some sang songs, others 
gamboled, pushed one another, played “leapfrog.” I lagged behind the 
company, and felt gloomy in my solitude. I kept on asking myself: For 
what purpose do these sing, and those argue? Wherefore and why do 
they do it? Wherefore and why do we walk along the railroad track? 
For what purpose was this road built? For what purpose do they, my 
friends, make merry and live? Suddenly, in view of the coming train, 
the thought of suicide gripped me poignantly, and I stretched myself in 
between the rails of the track, deciding that if I remained alive, then there 
was sense in living, but if the train crushed me, then, consequently, such 
was the will of Providence. . . . My head and chest were bruised, I was 
all scratched, my jacket was torn away from me, my clothes were tat¬ 
tered, but still I remained alive. ... I was then sixteen years old . 20 

Professor S. A. Vengerov adds an interesting touch to this 
story. Andreyev told him that while testing his fate at that 
moment, he knew that there were two kinds of engine running 
cn the Orel-Vitebsk railroad, one with a furnace high from the 
ground, the other with a low furnace. The latter fur¬ 
nace would have reduced him to a heap of torn flesh, but on 
that occasion the engine had a high furnace, and the youth re¬ 
mained unhurt. 21 Young Andreyev was evidently a typical Rus- 

20 V. V. Brusyanin, Leonid Andreyev, p. 38. Moscow, 1912. 

21 In Russian Literature of the 20 th Century, p. 249. “I cannot answer these 
questions: let fate answer them,” was the way the boy reasoned, according to 
Andreyev’s reminiscence in a conversation with his wife. Curiously enough, Gorky 
listened to Andreyev’s account of this adventure without surprise: he had practiced 
that trick as a regular sport. The following passage may be of interest as an 
example of Russian stoicism: 

“In Andreyev’s account there was something vague, unreal, but he adorned it 


30 Leonid Andreyev 

sian intellectual, gravely introspective, uncompromisingly self¬ 
analyzing, and ready to translate his ideas into actions, the sort 
of youth Artsibashev portrayed in Youri, of the notorious 
Sanin. 22 

We do not know what was the immediate cause of An¬ 
dreyev’s second attempt at suicide, by a revolver. We may as¬ 
sume it to have been the combination of his material wretched¬ 
ness and spiritual loneliness, during his early student years in 
Petrograd. It was in Petrograd also that his third attempt 
took place, as recorded by Brusyanin from the words of an eye 
witness. Andreyev was present at a student party, with its reg¬ 
ular songs, dances, drinking, and . . . discussions. Though 
the year of the affair is not given, we can easily imagine during 
the nineties a heated exchange of views among Russian youths 
on the burning problems of the day. The oppressive policy of 
the Government, the persecution of those university professors 
who had the courage of independent opinion, the growth of the 
labor movement, the controversy between Marxism and Narod- 
nikism, these and many more problems aroused endless discus¬ 
sions at any gathering of Russian students in Andreyev’s college 
years. Brusanin gives no details regarding the circumstances 
which led Andreyev, at the end of the party, to strike himself in 

with an amazingly brilliant description of the sensations of a person over whom 
thunder thousands of tons of iron. This sensation was familiar to me—at the age 
of ten I used to lie down under a moving ballast train, vying in daring with my 
playmates; one of them, a switchman’s son, performed it with particular coolness. 
This diversion is almost safe, provided the furnace of the engine is sufficiently 
high above the road, and when the train moves uphill. . . . For a few seconds 
you live through a creepy feeling, endeavoring to press to the ground as closely as 
possible, and being hardly able to overcome by a strain of your will the passionate 
desire to make a move, to raise your head. You feel the torrent of iron and wood 
rushing over you, sweeping you off the earth, trying to carry you off somewhere, 
and the rumbling and clanging of the iron seems to ring in your very bones. 
Then, after the train has passed, you remain lying for a minute or more, unable 
to rise. You feel as though you were swimming in the wake of the train, and 
your body stretches out endlessly, it grows, becomes light, airy, and you are about 
to fly above the earth. This is a very agreeable feeling.”—Maxim Gorky, in A 
Book on Andreyev (Kniga o L. Andreyeve ), p. 7. Petrograd, 1922. 

22 “Perpetual sighing and whimpering, and incessant questionings such as: ‘I 
sneezed just now. What was the right thing to do? Will it not cause harm to 
some one? Have I, in sneezing, fulfilled my destiny?’” Sanin, p. 263. Berlin, 

1921. 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 31 

the chest with a knife, 23 but they were undoubtedly similar to 
those of the Orel picnic, which resulted in the adventure on 
the railroad track. The boisterous merriment, drink and 
dance and song provoked in Andreyev a contrary reaction, 
a gloomy concentration on the issues discussed, and a reflex 
expression of his disgust with life and with its unanswerable 
questions. 

Depressed by poverty, self-centred and shy, impressionable 
and analytical, Andreyev the student felt keenly life’s contra¬ 
dictions, and in those days sought an easy solution in escaping 
from life. It is interesting to note that with all his susceptibil¬ 
ity and responsiveness, Andreyev did not belong to the regular 
type of the “political” student who settled his doubts and que¬ 
ries by joining a revolutionary party, in whose perilous activity 
he might drown everything personal. Professor Vengerov 
states that Andreyev “lived the debauchee life of the student 
Boheme, which he later presented in his plays, Days of Our Life 
and Gaudeamus” 24 In one of his feuilletons in the Moscow 
Daily Courier r Andreyev recalled one celebration of a univer¬ 
sity holiday at Petrograd, at which instead of the regular drink 
and noise he was treated to speeches by famous writers and 
educators; he was deeply moved by the oratory which appealed 
ro the students’ dignity and responsibility. 25 The tone of sur¬ 
prise and enthusiasm with which that event was described, 
showed that it was an extraordinary occurrence in the otherwise 
nonpolitical and nonsocial life of young Andreyev. “On the 
whole,” remarks Professor Vengerov, “he remained all his life 
typically apolitical, untouched by political problems. Even the 
year 1905 failed to intoxicate him.” 26 Of this trait of his 
more will be said presently. 

Drink was to Andreyev probably one of the means for escap¬ 
ing from consciousness. In Russian life it was difficult for a 
sensitive person to remain a calm onlooker at the political and 

23 Brusyanin, Leonid Andreyev, p. 36. 

24 Russian Literature of the zoth Century, p. 246. 

25 University Day (Tatianin den), Works — I, pp. 167-173. 

26 Op. cit., p. 247. 


32 Leonid Andreyev 

social national tragedy. One had to take sides, or else to for¬ 
get oneself in cards, in vodka, or in death. The number of 
Russian artists—their sensitiveness is patent—who sought sol¬ 
ace in one of these ways, or who have lost their reason, is im¬ 
posing. 27 Andreyev was addicted to drink in his student years, 
and also in subsequent periods of his life. Of this he spoke in 
a letter to his mother, 28 reviewing his past. His drunkenness 
would come in fits, lasting at times several days. 29 E. Chirikov 
tells of Andreyev’s “fits of sadness” which “would end in an 
effort to forget himself in the cup.” 30 B. Zaytsev quotes a let¬ 
ter from Andreyev, in which he speaks of his yearning for the 
“other reality,” the one born by imagination: “this is why . . . 
I used to like drunkenness and its wonderful and terrible 
dreams.” 31 

We do not know for what reason Andreyev transferred him¬ 
self to the University of Moscow, 32 where he received his di¬ 
ploma in 1897. At Moscow he was better off materially, being 

27 It would be difficult to enumerate these victims, without falling into literary 
gossip. Suffice it to mention Pushkin, Belinsky, Nekrasov, Pomyalovsky, Mus- 
orgsky, Garshin, Vrubel, Blok, a few representative artists, now dead, whose tragic 
frailties have been substantiated documentarily. Of the great Russian writers, 
Goncharov alone could boast of an even and “happy” disposition, at all events, 
placidly complacent. Gogol regretted that his revered master, Pushkin, gave so 
much of his time to cards, but neither was Gogol spared the need of an “escape.” 
He was driven into a mania religiosa by his keen eye, which saw, in spite of him¬ 
self, nothing but evil in Russian life. Dostoyevsky found “divine harmony” during 
his epileptic fits. Of Turgenev’s brooding melancholy over his native land, one 
may judge from his Poems in Prose and Senilia. Tolstoy had to hide the rope 
and the gun, lest he be tempted to commit suicide—until he found his panacea in 
God-good. Some of the living Russian authors would corroborate my statement 
through their personal “vices,” were it proper to discuss living men. 

28 Infra, p. 156. 

29 G. Chulkov, in A Booh on Andreyev, pp. 68, 69, 72. 

30 In Russian Miscellanies (Russkiye Sborniki), No. 2, p. 62. Sofia, 1921. 

31 In A Book on Andreyev, p. 86. According to Mme. Andreyev, during their 
married life (1908-1919) her husband very seldom turned to drink as a refuge 
from reality. The declaration of war by Germany caught him in the midst of a 
“fit.” He immediately became sober, and hardly touched a drop of wine till his 
very death. Mme. Andreyev relates another instance of her husband’s ability to 
rise above his habits and vices. An inveterate smoker, consuming numerous ciga¬ 
rettes during his work, he would occasionally decide to test his will power, and for 
several days resist the tempting cigarettes which remained on his desk and in his 
pocket. 

32 “Closer to Orel, and more of the Orel atmosphere,” is the suggestion of Mme, 
Andreyev, 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 33 

aided by the students’ committee, and also through painting por¬ 
traits for the fee of three to five rubles apiece, but sometimes 
for as high a remuneration as ten or twelve rubles. 33 He loved 
painting from his childhood. “I felt a passionate affection for 
painting,” he wrote in his autobiography, “even when an infant. 
I drew a great deal (my first teacher was mother, who held the 
pencil in my hand).” 34 As a mature and famous writer, An¬ 
dreyev still turned longingly to his brush. He said to Iz¬ 
mailov: “To this day [about 1909] I ask myself at times: 
Which is my real vocation, that of a writer or that of a painter? 
At any rate, writing I began in my youth, while I do not recall 
myself without a drawing pencil in my earliest childhood.” 36 
It may be presumed that the brush served Andreyev as one of 
the means for escaping into the fantastic world of “another 
reality,” beside such means as the contemplation of a stray sun¬ 
beam in the school corridor, or the communion with the heroes 
of Reid and Cooper, or vodka, or such of his subsequent infat¬ 
uations as color photography, or seafaring, or the war. For his 
paintings were not at all realistic, as he admits in his autobiog¬ 
raphy: “Nature I did not like to copy. I always drew ‘from 
the head,’ committing at times comic errors.” 36 In fact, he 
never gave up his brush. There were periods in his later life 
when he devoted himself entirely to painting, ignoring all other 
interests and problems. The critic Chukovsky describes An¬ 
dreyev as he appeared during such a stage, on one of his visits 
to the author’s village in Finland: 

. . . Now he is a painter. His hair is long and wavy, he has the 
small beard of an aesthete, and wears a black velvet coat. His study is 
transformed into a studio. He is as prolific as Rubens; he does not lay 
his brushes aside all day. You walk with him from room to room, and 
he shows you his golden, green-yellow paintings. Here is a scene from 
The Life of Man . Here is a portrait of Ivan Belousov. Here is a large 
Byzantine ikon representing with naive sacrilege Judas Iscariot and 

33 From My Life. 

34 First Literary Steps, p. 29. 

35 Literary Olympus, p. 244. 

36 First Literary Steps, p. 30. 


34 Leonid Andreyev 

Christ. ... All night long he walks back and forth in his huge study, 
and talks of Velasquez, Diirer, Vrubel. . . . 37 

Andreyev had been complimented on his canvases by such 
authorities as Repin and Serov. The Academician Nicolas 
Roerich has told me that although Andreyev’s technique was 
obviously amateurish, he displayed an indubitable talent, “quite 
Goyaesque.” Lvov-Rogachevsky also speaks of Andreyev’s 
fondness for Francisco Goya, particularly for the Spaniard’s 
“Capriccios.” Andreyev was probably attracted by Goya’s 
keen power for detecting the beast in man, in consequence of 
which the faces of his sitters invariably resemble some quad¬ 
ruped—an ass, a goat, a wolf, an orang-outang, or a rabbit. 
Andreyev, no doubt, appreciated such a gift, a gift which he 
himself possessed in no small degree. Not fully satisfied with 
the verbal presentation of his characters, he apparently sought 
to complement it through another medium at his command— 
brush and paint. A passage from Lvov-Rogachevsky may shed 
some additional light on this accomplishment of Andreyev: 

In recent years Andreyev has come back to painting, and in 1913 his 
canvases even appeared at the exhibition of the Independents, and were 
regarded very favorably by the critics. At present on the gray walls of 
his castle, alongside of numerous caricatures out of Goya’s “Capriccios,” 
hang Leonid Andreyev’s pastels, some of which are harshly realistic things, 
like the portrait of a Finn with an icicle-covered face and with muddy- 
blue eyes, others—schematic symbols, like the musicians in The Life of 
Man, or the Black Maskers marching in a crowd toward the castle of 
Duke Lorenzo, lured by the inviting lights [ The Black Maskers ] . . . 
In his study hangs a large auto-portrait, and in the niche one sees a 
picture representing Tolstoy in his last days. This painting is a repro¬ 
duction from a photograph, but Andreyev has succeeded in lending an 
extraordinary power to the piercing, utterly penetrating eyes of the dying 
man. These eyes you cannot forget for a long time. 38 

37 Reprinted with some changes from Literary Messenger ( Literaturny Vestnik ), 
Petrograd, 1920, in A Book on Andreyev, p. 43. 

88 Two Truths, pp. 33, 34. Mme. Andreyev corrects Lvov-Rogachevsky: the 
picture in the niche was a copy of a photograph of Tolstoy while he was sick in 
the Crimea, some years before his death. 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 35 

While at the university of Moscow Andreyev made his first 
acquaintance with the “printing press”: he was in charge of the 
department of “information” on the daily paper, The Russian 
Word (Russkoye Slovo) ; he had to indicate on what days and 
hours certain institutions were open to the public. “For this 
literary work I received thirty copecks a day.” 39 It would be 
wrong, however, to assume that as a student at Moscow An¬ 
dreyev did nothing more serious than drink, paint portraits, 
and set up stereotyped information for a daily newspaper. 
The youth who as a boy had “bitten into” Schopenhauer and 
Hartmann, Pisarev and Tolstoy, was sure to continue his search 
for truth among the world thinkers. Unfortunately we find no 
record of his intellectual interests in those days, but we do find 
an indirect reference to the fact of his study of Nietzsche at 
that period. In his story, Sergey Petrovich y published in 1900, 
he wrote of a student, Novikov, who changed the drab existence 
of the hero by initiating him into Also sprach Zarathustra. Ac¬ 
cording to Lvov-Rogachevsky, Andreyev used as a prototype 
for this Novikov a fellow student who was “extremely gifted 
and well read, and subsequently became a distinguished scholar. 
With this ‘Novikov’ Andreyev at one time tried to translate 
Nietzsche.” 40 

Upon his graduation, in 1897, he began to practice law, but, 
he states, “I got off the track at the very outset. I was offered 
a position as court reporter for the Courier. I did not succeed 
in getting any practice as a lawyer. In all I had one civil case 
which I lost at every point, and a few criminal cases which I 

Andreyev’s pictures, including the one he considered his masterpiece, “Judas and 
Jesus,” are at the museum of Viborg, Finland. At the Berlin residence of his 
■widow I saw one large copy of a Goya “Capriccio,” and was struck with its 
intense expressiveness. No mere copyist could have put into the work so much 
genuine feeling and graceful force. One should not exaggerate, however, An¬ 
dreyev’s talent as a painter. Painting was with him, after all, a side issue, one 
of his hobbies, a recess from his true work, his literary art, which was his life. 
That in his letters and in his diary Andreyev gave so much space and attention 
to his paintings, need not be taken seriously. I am told by Mme. Andreyev that 
when her husband and Roerich came together, the writer insisted on discussing 
his canvases, while the painter endeavored to turn the conversation on his, Roer¬ 
ich’s, bits of writing. Idiosyncrasies of artists! 

89 Literary Olympus, p. 244. 

40 Tivo Truths, p. 44. 


36 Leonid Andreyev 

defended without pay.” 41 His failure as a lawyer becomes 
comprehensible when one reads such of his sketches as His First 
Fee , The Defense, Christians , or the court scenes in The Seven 
That Were Hanged and in Tsar Hunger . Like the young at¬ 
torney in the story of the first title, Andreyev could not stomach 
the cynical attitude of men of the legal profession to the ques¬ 
tion of the client’s guilt or innocence. His noble intention of 
championing justice and truth in legal trials was mocked by his 
experienced colleagues and by the defendants themselves. 
Whenever he mentions in his works court proceedings, he inva¬ 
riably underlines the presumptuousness of the judges, the sham 
quality of the ceremonies and the ordeal, and the dominant 
cynicism of the initiated. It is legitimate to presume that An¬ 
dreyev was constitutionally unfit for the legal profession, and 
that he gladly chose the direction of lesser resistance though of 
lesser remuneration 42 —that of a court reporter. 

He must have been a remarkable reporter. At least his edi¬ 
tor testifies that “with every day Andreyev’s accounts became 
more and more noted, not only among professionals, but even 
with the general public. One felt in them a belles-lettrist 
rather than an ordinary chronicler.” 43 We may judge retro¬ 
spectively what an ideal reporter Andreyev was apt to make, 
with his detachment of a sympathetic observer. His character¬ 
istic trait as an author consisted in his faculty of approaching 
problems and issues not so closely as to distort the perspective, 

41 From, My Life. In a later statement Andreyev described his journalistic vicis¬ 
situdes before he obtained his position on the Courier. Here is an eloquent detail: 
“There lived in Moscow an attorney, Malyantovich [subsequently member of 
Kerensky’s cabinet]. The Moscow Messenger (Moskovsky Vestnik), . . . invited 
him to write for it. In his turn he let me attend trials and write reports, while 
he merely “went over” them, and handed them to the newspaper. My honorarium 
amounted to four copecks per line. At the office they were quite satisfied with the 
reports, as long as they believed they were written by an experienced attorney. 
But one fine day they learned that I was writing them. My prosperity was 
gravely threatened. It happened, however, that just then they could not find a 
man for the job, and I was retained.”— Literary Olympus, pp. 245 ff. 

42 One of the editors of the Moscow Courier, I. Novik, states that the fee An¬ 
dreyev received for his accounts did not cover his expenses, in view of which he 
was permitted to contribute similar material to the Moscow Messenger. —In his ar¬ 
ticle, “Leonid Andreyev,” The Russian Emigrant ( Russky Emigrant ), No. 4, p. 10. 
Berlin, November, 1920. 

48 Ibid. 


Childhood, Boyhood, Youth 37 

and yet with such keen interest and deep sympathy as to make 
one feel that he personally had lived through the situations, per¬ 
ipetia, dramas of his characters. In fact, years later a leading 
critic reproached Andreyev with having preserved the peculiar¬ 
ity of a court reporter, who is interested in presenting the case, 
the proceedings, the persons involved, but who does not bother 
a whit about the sentence: “The verdict will be announced to¬ 
morrow,” 44 as the customary conclusion of Russian court re¬ 
ports goes. Andreyev the doubter, the indefatigable raiser of 
questions, usually left them open, reluctant, and perhaps unable, 
to offer solutions. He remained the ideal reporter attending 
the complex trial which is life, an objective observer who is yet 
not alien to the parties involved. 

Novik and his colleagues urged Andreyev to widen the range 
of his subject matter. He made a few clumsy attempts, pro¬ 
duced a long story of fantastic contents, wrote an essay on the 
ethics of the legal profession, none of which proved suitable for 
a daily paper, either in size or in substance. 45 Gradually, how¬ 
ever, he adapted himself to the role of a feuilletonist, a most 
important functionary in the pre-revolutionary press of Russia. 
The Russian reader eagerly looked to the lower part of his 
newspaper’s page for the discussion of the burning problems of 
the day, in politics as well as in art. Writing in a light vein, 
the feuilletonist had to perform the delicate task of dodging 
the lynx-eyed censor by masking his thoughts, at the same time 
rendering them decipherable for the reader trained in the gentle 
art of reading between the lines. It is natural that censor- 
ridden Russia should have produced the most subtle and keen 
feuilletonists on the Continent. Among them Andreyev could 
hardly aspire to a rank higher than second. For one thing, he 
never succeeded in concealing his inherent gravity, he lacked 

44 Vladimir Kranichfeld, in his monthly review in The Contemporary World. 
(Sovremenny Mir), January, 1910, pp. 86 ff. A. Izmailov quotes I. Novik: “An¬ 
dreyev’s court reports were not the customary press stuff concerning trials in the 
court room. He approached the question not in the regular journalistic way. 
The indictment did not interest him at all. The accumulated evidence moved him 
not in the least. All his attention was concentrated on the characterization of the 
defendant and of the environment in which he lived .”—Literary Olympus, p. 246. 

45 The Russian Emigrant — IV, p. 10. 


38 Leonid Andreyev 

the ease, the lightness of laughter that kills, for which faculty 
were famous such of his compatriots as Doroshevich, Am¬ 
fiteatrov, Yablonovsky, Kugel (Homo Novus), and many other 
artful dodgers on the slippery arena of Russian journalism. 
Still Andreyev, under the pen name of “James Lynch,” occupied 
the lower story on the page of the Courier for several years, oc¬ 
casionally contributing to this department even after he made 
his reputation at a writer of fiction. 46 Evidently he was a 
drawing card, for the editors would not have kept him on a sal¬ 
ary for such platonic reasons as his beautiful dark eyes. 

Some of his feuilletons were subsequently published in the 
first volume of Andreyev’s collected works (1911). They deal 
with a wide variety of topics, from meditations on the Christ- 
mas-eve suckling pig to bitter denunciations of the whimpering 
Intelligentsia, from such hackneyed themes as the tribulations of 
suburbanites to reviews of important plays. In spite of the 
puerility and half-baked wisdom which characterize many of 
these writings, they are valuable as roadstones in the course of 
the author’s evolution. They show us the young journalist in 
his shirt sleeves, discussing things directly, not through the veil 
of art. Here he is more outspoken in his views and prefer¬ 
ences, which foreshadow the hidden and masked meanings of his 
later works, and which also show much more clearly the influ¬ 
ences contributary to their formation. 

48 As late as 1903 he contributed to the Courier a feuilleton under the regular 
title of “Life’s Trifles”; though in January of the same year he stated: “Now 
I devote myself exclusively to fiction. I rarely write articles of a general nature.” 
—From My Life. 


II 

ANDREYEV’S FEUILLETONS 


Motives in Andreyev’s feuilletons.— The Sphinx of Modernity. —Ibsenite 
individualism, and contradictory notes.—Buoyancy.—Denounces 
Chekhovian melancholy.—Greets Gorky.—Love for life, in spite 
of its drawbacks.—Avowed influences.—Nietzschean motives.— 
Illusionism.—Desire to escape responsibility.—Andreyev’s view 
of the writer’s mission.—Intense sincerity in his creations. 

The future analyst of the modern soul became early aware 
of the complexity and contradictoriness of his subject matter. 
In The Sphinx of Modernity 1 Andreyev draws the difference 
between the harmony in the ethical, social and mental life of 
the ancient man, and the chaos reigning within the modern in¬ 
dividual. How definite and consistent were relations in pagan 
Rome, in comparison with our day, when “there are no pagans 
or Christians, but a mixture of both; no masters or slaves, but a 
mixture of both.” Our thoughts and acts, moods and princi¬ 
ples are mutually contradictory and hostile, yet intertwined and 
inseparable like a “many-colored skein.” 

Who is he—this citizen of the twentieth century, this sphinx of mo¬ 
dernity? 

He weeps over a book describing the suffering of the destitute, demands 
these books and these tears, yet with every tread of his sole he crushes 
living beings. He augments vice to a degree which would astonish Rome 
and decadent Byzantium, and demands of art chastity and shrinking 
modesty, approving only of plays ending with the triumph of virtue. He 
cries insistently and peremptorily, “Thou shalt not kill,” and goes forth 
to kill, and weeps while killing. 

Impotent in vice as well as in virtue, perpetually warring with a thou¬ 
sand foes that nestle in his head and heart, with one hand giving bread, 
with the other taking it away—he weeps without grief and laughs with- 

1 Works— I, pp. 53 , 54- 


39 


40 Leonid Andreyev 

out joy. His tongue has split into a thousand tongues, and he does not 
know himself when he lies and when he tells the truth—this unfortunate 
sphinx of modernity, who vainly attempts to solve his own riddle and who 
perishes without solving it! 

This chaos of the modern mind Andreyev was to gauge in 
his art. In the meanwhile, as a journalist, he merely juxtaposes 
conflicting elements and attitudes, unable to reconcile contradic¬ 
tions or to adopt a definite, uncompromising point of view. He 
is torn between individualism and collectivism, between opti¬ 
mism and pessimism, between realism and symbolism—but 
throughout these flounderings one feels his earnestness and sin¬ 
cerity: the writer is not so much instructing his audience as he is 
trying to find himself, to clarify his own doubts. 

The effect of Ibsen on young Andreyev is shown in the latter’s 
enthusiastic reviews of An Enemy of the People, The Wild 
Duck, When We Dead Awaken, the plays presented by the re¬ 
cently established Moscow Art Theatre at the end of the nine¬ 
ties. The artistic production of the plays by the troupe of 
Stanislavsky enhances the admiration of the young reviewer. 
In the fourth act of An Enemy of the People 

the power of suggestion coming in waves from the stage into the audi¬ 
torium, reaches the highest strain. The drama of one man is transformed 
into the drama of all mankind. Before the eyes of the indignant spec¬ 
tators honor, justice and truth perish under the onslaught of a mad, ego¬ 
tistic, blinded mob. Stockman gains in stature ... he is the suffering 
spirit of mankind, pining in the fine net of commonplace, stupidity, and 
cheap malice. 2 

He quotes and paraphrases Ibsen’s heroes, comments and 
philosophizes on the questions involved with the devotion of a 
disciple. Ibsen and Stanislavsky succeed in pervading the au¬ 
dience with hatred for the mob, for the tyrannical majority, and 
with admiration for the solitary free spirits who perish glo¬ 
riously in the unequal battle. And though this very public is 
probably a criminal mob when outside the theatre, throwing 

2 Works — I, p. 275. 


Feuilletons 


41 

stones at the Stockmans, and stifling them with trivial stupidity, 
yet for a moment they are regenerated. 

Is it not precious to live through such a moment of spiritual purgation, 
and then, perhaps for the rest of your life, remember that at least for a 
few minutes you have succeeded in living, feeling, and thinking like a 
man, instead of bleating and wagging your ingratiating tail like one of 
the great herd. 3 

Ibsen’s individualistic note struck a sympathetic ear in An¬ 
dreyev, most of whose feuilletons, even the earliest, voice con¬ 
tempt for the spirit of gregariousness, for the “tyranny of con¬ 
ventional pettiness,” for the common aspiration to be “like 
everybody else.” The future author of The Life of Man, The 
Curse of the Beast and other works exposing the bane of our 
life, sameness, is anticipated in his Courier philippics against the 
machine-made, stereotyped interiors of modern homes, 4 the fear 
of the average citizen to be the first in any new undertaking or 
departure from convention, his “agoraphobia,” manifested in 
his dread of doing things alone, as an individual, 5 his perpetual 
gossip on similar themes, in similar expressions, with similar 
jokes, tinged with the same feeling of hopeless ennui. 6 An¬ 
dreyev suffocates in the stale atmosphere of herd psychology 
and herd action, and he yearns for the sharply outstanding in¬ 
dividual, for the “enemy of the people.” 

Andreyev, as will appear later, seldom showed any consist¬ 
ent adherence to one theory or point of view. His contempt 
for the mob, for the average, did not lift him to the isolated 
peaks where dwell such aristocrats as Nietzsche. To the end 
he was torn between hatred and love for the human mass. 7 
Alongside such diatribes as those quoted above, which voice the 
Doctor Stockman attitude to the “majority,” we find in his feuil¬ 
letons quite “democratic” passages. By such we mean not the 

8 Ibid, p. 277. 

*Ibid, p. 38. 

6 Ibid, p. 63. 

6 Ibid, pp. 77-87, passim. 

7 Recall his different and contradictory treatment of the masses in To the Stars , 
Savva, Thus It Was, The Seven That Were Hanged, Tsar Hunger, He Who Gets 
Slapped. 


42 Leonid Andreyev 

expressions of sympathy and compassion for the submerged, for 
Dostoyevsky’s “humiliated and offended” 8 : pity does not ex¬ 
clude contempt. But one hears the note of respect in his refer¬ 
ence to “the ordinary, gray crowd, which composes the very 
kernel of life, while those culturally refined are only its showy 
side . . . The gray, stubborn crowd, which moves inexorably 
and heavily, while those culturally refined hop over it like fleas, 
and shout with importance: Right! left!” 9 And one feels not 
only respect but love and affection for just “people” in the pas¬ 
sage where Andreyev recalls an incident from his boyhood days, 
when one winter morning he rode on his skates beyond the town, 
and from the ice-covered river envisaged a limitless snowy ex¬ 
panse. The majesty of the stillness and lifelessness gripped the 
boy’s heart, and a mortal terror filled him. He tried to shout, 
but the sound died in his throat. At this moment, when he re¬ 
garded himself even as a particle of the dead waste, the tolling 
of the church bells in the town reached his ears, and brought 
him back to life, to the realization that 

There are people! Dear, good, live people! ’Tis people who toll the 
bells there, beyond the high snowy hill; ’tis they who have now gathered 
at church, or sit around and drink tea, or still rub their sleepy eyes, but 
whatever they do and wherever they be, they are all the same dear, good, 
live people. They call me to come to them out of this icy desert, and 
presently I shall fly to them, because I love them. I shall throw myself 
into their arms, I shall press myself to their warm hearts, and shall kiss 
their bright, speaking eyes ... I shall tell them how afraid I was in 
this waste, under the glances of white dead eyes, how stillness enwrapped 
me as though with a white shroud. . . . They will understand me, the 
good, dear people, and together we, full of life, shall laugh over that 
which is dead. I shall fly to them, because I love them, because I am 
not dead . . . . Toll on, summoning bells. 10 

As he lived on, Andreyev heard the summons of these bells 
ever more seldom, and he rarely succeeded in spanning the gulf 

8 E. g., Poor Russia, in Works — I, pp. 117-125. 

9 Ibid, p. 252. 

10 Ibid, pp. 264, 265. 


Feuilletons 43 

of his solitude and isolation. But in those years, at the close 
of the nineties, he endeavored to fall in tune with the nascent 
song of joy, sounded by Gorky. He craved for a relief from 
the Chekhovian mood which had been in vogue among Russian 
intellectuals for more than a decade. With bitter sarcasm he 
described the fashionable hypochondriacs of the time, who tried 
to look like “wet hens,” in order to have success in the press, in 
society, among friends and women. He protested against the 
popular line, “Gray life, tedious life, gray with drops of blood 
on it.” But his protest concerned only the first part of the 
phrase, for he could not deny the tragic nature of Russian life 
under the autocratic regime. And though he proclaimed the 
beauty, colorfulness, and many-sidedness of life, he was unable, 
for reasons of censorship, to say anything in regard to the drops 
of blood which bespattered this life. Thus his attacks upon 
his melancholy contemporaries left a good deal that was unsaid 
though it could be surmised, as was the case with most of the 
public utterances in pre-revolutionary Russia. 11 While employ¬ 
ing a large arsenal of invectives against the inactivity of the 
Intelligentsia, he could only hint remotely at what he considered 
it their duty to do. Russian publicist literature was in the main 
negative, for it was easier to dodge the censor in adverse criti¬ 
cism than in positive precepts. Thus Andreyev had no diffi¬ 
culty in upbraiding the Russian “Intelligent” for his pitiable and 
ridiculous position: 

Isolated from the toiling mass of the people, elevated to some limitless 
height, oversated to the point of indigestion with spiritual food, inebri¬ 
ated with the vinegar and gall of his aimless and pathless existence, nu¬ 
merically insignificant yet regarding himself as of sole importance, lean 
as Pharaoh’s cow, and like her insatiable—he sits in a quaint steam bath, 
and with all his might flagellates himself with the rods of perpetual and 
wild penitence. 12 

11 In this respect conditions under the Bolsheviki have deteriorated. Dissenting 
sentiments can be voiced with more difficulty and at greater risk than under the 
tsars. To be sure the authorities offer a plausible reason for the rigidity of censor¬ 
ship in Soviet Russia: the conditions of enforced dictatorship, which amount to 
a state of constant war on all fronts. 

12 works—J, p. 48. 


44 Leonid Andreyev 

Gorky’s barefooted brigade had already sounded their con- 
tempt for the smug citizen as well as for the whimpering, con¬ 
ceited Intelligentsia. Andreyev echoed this new note of im¬ 
patience with the theatrical pose of protestant passivity, of 
Tolstoyan nonresistance, of hypertrophied introspection, of 
self-enamored melancholy, assumed by the Intelligentsia since 
the collapse of the revolutionary Narodniki in the eighties. 
But what was the Intelligentsia to do? All open public activity, 
unless subservient to the Government, was forbidden. Clan¬ 
destine revolutionary propaganda among the people, the peas¬ 
ants, had been proved futile by the heroic Narodniki. The re¬ 
ply of Gorky and his circle could not be stated openly, but its 
implied meaning was transparent: A new class clamored for at¬ 
tention and guidance—the proletariat of the cities. The dec¬ 
ade of the nineties witnessed the artificially rapid growth of 
Russian industries, and its resultant industrial crisis. The first 
condition was responsible for the increase in the number of fac¬ 
tory workers, while the second condition made these workers 
susceptible to revolutionary propaganda. Hence Andreyev’s 
indignation at the passive whining of the Intelligent anent the 
“gray, tedious life,” at a time when “at his very side, into his 
very ears, sound summoning voices: ‘Men, give us men, for 
behold, here is a good cause, here is good work; but there is no 
one to undertake it.’ ” 13 The hypochondriacs slandered life, 
shrouded Russia in gloom, made all leaves on all trees “rustle 
something sad, transformed all curly birches into weeping wil¬ 
lows, all oaks into cudgels.” 14 This melancholy was perhaps 
due, as we may interject, to isolation and ignorance of the peo¬ 
ple on the part of the Intelligentsia. Since Peter the Great 
there had existed two Russias, the cultured minority and the 
illiterate masses, and as time went on the abyss between them 
grew wider and deeper. The brooding, bored intellectual does 
not know, insinuated Andreyev, that 

Below—far below—abysmally separated from this hapless Do-nothing, 
lives and powerfully breathes the toiling mass. For us it is asleep; for us 

13 Ibid., p. 49. 

14 lbid. t p. 51. 


Feuilletons 


45 

its breathing is only a sign of senseless force. But do we know of what 
this mass is dreaming? Were we to know, we might find something joy¬ 
ous and invigorating in these dreams, might find them less misty than 
they seem to those who look from above. 15 

The note of joy and vigor recurs throughout Andreyev’s 
feuilletons on the threshold of the twentieth century. In his 
descriptions of spring, of the Volga, of Russian Easter, in his 
dramatic reviews, he sings praises to life and to the joy of liv¬ 
ing. “One should live joyfully. One should live joyfully,” he 
reiterates and italicizes these words, 16 so unusual in the Russia 
of the nineteenth century. And with assurance he states that 
“the song of pessimism is sung and buried,” adding the reserva¬ 
tion that he refers not to philosophic pessimism, but to “the 
pessimism of the average burgher, which is dull enough to kill 
flies.” 17 He is far from justifying life as it is, but while merci¬ 
lessly attacking evil and ugliness he regards them as excrescences 
which dim but do not annul the value of life. With all his dis¬ 
like for Chekhov’s characters (if this term can be applied to his 
will-less, boneless, characterless individuals), because “they are 
destitute of an appetite for life,” 18 Andreyev pays a glowing 
tribute to the performance of Three Sisters at the Moscow Art 
Theatre. The pathos of the thwarted hopes and dreams of the 
three women brings tears to his eyes and haunts his mind for 
days, but it does not disparage his love for life. He reiterates: 

What a pity about the sisters. How sad . . . And how madly one 
yearns to live! 19 

For, indeed, the sad story of Chekhov’s three sisters is sat¬ 
urated with deep craving for life, for beauty, for light. What 
if the strivings remain unfulfilled, the dreams are shattered, the 
hopes broken! The hymn of life sounds in the very tragedy 
of the sisters, “and only he who has not been able to hear the 
triumphant cry of life in the groans of a dying person, can fail 

16 Ibid., p. 49. 

16 Ibid., p. 39. 

17 Ibid., p. 60. 

18 Ibid., p. 255. 

19 Ibid., p. 254. 


46 Leonid Andreyev 

to perceive this.” 20 Here we find a clue to Andreyev’s atti¬ 
tudes in their variations in the course of his evolution. In spite 
of his reputation as an “apostle of gloom,” he invariably mani¬ 
fests his love for life, with all its conflicts, sufferings, disap¬ 
pointments. He considers erroneous the prevailing conviction 
that “if a person weeps, is ill and tormented, it follows that he 
does not wish to live and does not love life; but if he laughs, 
is healthy and stout, then he wishes to live and loves life.” 21 
After seeing the heartbreaking tragedy of the three sisters, 
Andreyev feels his love for life enhanced and whetted. A sim¬ 
ilar feeling he experiences when the curtain drops on Ibsen’s 
disenchanting Wild Duck, a play which he regards as sur¬ 
charged with the joy of life, perhaps against the wish of its 
author. Both Chekhov and Ibsen are painfully aware of life’s 
folly and vulgarity, falseness and violence, pettiness and futil¬ 
ity, but, according to Andreyev, pessimism may reach a fatal 
line at which it crosses “most innocently” into optimism. 
“In condemning all life, one becomes its involuntary apologist. 
I never believe so much in life as when reading the ‘father’ of 
pessimism, Schopenhauer. Here is a man who thought as he 
did—and lived. Consequently, life is powerful and invin¬ 
cible.” 22 

The reference to Schopenhauer at this formative stage of 
Andreyev raises the question of the literary influences exerted 
on the young writer. In a letter written in 1908, Andreyev 
acknowledges the “strong influence of Pisarev, then of What Is 
My Faith? ( My Religion ), then of Hartmann and Schopen¬ 
hauer, then of Nietzsche.” 23 No Russian intellectual of the 
latter part of the nineteenth century escaped altogether the in¬ 
fluence of Pisarev, the champion of Nihilism during the sixties, 
who called upon the youth to destroy all conventions, to smash 
right and left, and to uphold only those things which are capable 
of surviving the general smashup. The influence of Tolstoy was 
also primarily of the negative category, for while very few 

20 Ibid., p. 255. 

21 Ibid., p. 255. 

22 Ibid., p. 285. 

23 Two Truths, p. 24. See also supra, pp. 26, 27. 


Feuilletons 


47 

accepted his positive teaching, his criticism of established in¬ 
stitutions and beliefs found a ready soil in the minds of the 
quizzical and ever doubting Russian youth. 24 Similarly wide¬ 
spread had been the influence of Schopenhauer, particularly 
since the eighties, when the passivity of the Intelligentsia sought 
justification in such doctrines as nonresistance (Tolstoy) or the 
denial of the will to live, the latter doctrine superficially cor¬ 
responding with the prevailing melancholy mood of the Chek- 
hovian variety. Less known at that time was Nietzsche, for 
in its Russian translation Also spracli Zarathustra appeared as 
late as 1900. 25 Andreyev evidently read this work in the orig¬ 
inal. The first direct mention of Zarathustra and the superman 
occurs in Andreyev’s story Sergey Petrovich (published in 
1900), where the Nietzschean termination of an unsuccessful 
life through “voluntary death” is suggested. Nietzschean mo¬ 
tives are evident in some of Andreyev’s dramatic reviews of that 
period, definitely and explicitly in the review of Gerhart Haupt¬ 
mann’s Michael Kramer, implicitly in the review of Ibsen’s 
Wild Duck, which was presented somewhat earlier. 26 Thus he 
sententiously states in the latter review that “one of the most 
desperate ‘wild ducks’ manufactured by the human race is so- 
called ‘truth.’ ” 27 Or again, discussing the question of false¬ 
hood and truth, he comes to the conclusion that “truth is that 
which justifies life and intensifies it, while that which harms life 
is always and everywhere false, though it be mathematically 
proven.” 28 He is not dismayed by Ibsen’s dethronement of 
human truths, he is not terrified by the interminable conflicts and 


24 See supra, p. 28 ff., for Andreyev’s account of Tolstoy’s influence on him. 

25 Ivan Lavrets'ky, in A Sketch of L. Andreyev ( Independent, 67: p. 242) asserts 
that Andreyev was responsible for the first Russian translation of Also sprach 
Zarathustra. I have been unable to verify this statement, which seems doubtful, 
if only for the reason that Andreyev’s knowledge of German was slight. See 
supra, p. 35. In 1900 there appeared four Russian translations of Zarathustra, as 
recorded by The Book Messenger (Knizhny Vyestnik ), for 1900, pp. 66, 134, 146, 
165. 

26 Both plays were given at the Moscow Art Theatre during the season of 1901- 
1902. The repertoire of this theatre is given by Oliver Sayler, in his The Russian 
Theatre under the Revolution, pp. 25-27. Boston, 1920. 

27 Works— 1 , p. 286. 

28 Ibid., p. 284. 


48 Leonid Andreyev 

struggles which men carry on in the name of “wild ducks,” lame 
illusions, tattered ideals. 

I rejoice at this struggle. Victorious will prove neither truth nor 
falsehood. That will conquer which is in alliance with life itself, that 
which strengthens its roots and justifies it. Only that which is useful 
for life survives, all that is harmful for it perishes sooner or later, per¬ 
ishes fatally, irretrievably. To-day it may stand firm as an indestructible 
wall, against which the heads of the most noble men are smashed in fruit¬ 
less struggle; to-morrow it will fall. It will fall, because it has pre¬ 
sumed to arrest life itself. 29 

There is a striking resemblance between the substance of the 
quoted passage and Nietzsche’s attitude toward life, as it is 
epitomized by Professor Henri Lichtenberger: 

. . . du moment ou je vie, je veux que la vie soit aussi exuberante, 
aussi luxuriante, aussi tropicale que possible, en moi et hors de moi. Je 
dirai done “oui” a tout ce qui rend la vie plus belle, plus digne d’etre 
vecue, plus intense. S’il m’est demontre que l’erreur et l’illusion peuvent 
servir au development de la vie, je dirai “oui” a l’erreur et a l’illusion; 
s’il m’est demontre que les instincts qualifies de “mauvais” par la morale 
actuelle—par exemple la durete, la cruaute, la ruse, l’audace temeraire, 
l’humeur batailleuse—sont de nature a augmenter la vitalite de l’homme, 
je dirai “oui” au mal et au peche; s’il m’est demontre que la souffrance 
concourt aussi bien que le plaisir a l’education du genre humain, je dirai 
“oui” a la souffrance. Au contraire, je dirai “non” a tout ce qui diminue 
la vitalite de la plante humaine. Et si je decouvre que la verite, la 
vertue, le bien, en un mot toutes les valeurs reverees et respectees jusq’a 
present par les hommes sont nuisible a la vie, je dirai “non” a la science et 
a la morale. 30 

The review of the next play, Michael Kramer, Andreyev 
writes more definitely “under the sign” of Nietzsche, as one 
may judge from the very title of the article, If your life is a 
failure, let your death he a success * 1 He justifies the death of 

29 Ibid., pp. 287, 288. 

30 La philosophic de Nietzsche, pp. 105, 106. Paris, 1905. 

31 Works — I, pp. 291-299. The title is a paraphrase of Nietzsche’s aphorism: 
“Manchen misrath das Leben: ein Giftwurm frisst sich ihm an’s Herz. So moge er 
zusehn, dass ihm das Sterben um so mehr gerathe.” Also sprach Zarathustra: 
“Vom freien Tode.” 


Feuilletons 49 

Arnold Kramer as the best solution for one who is unfit for 
life. Men, like wolves, kill their wounded mates. 

Both men and wolves act unconsciously, but while wolves perform this 
simply and naively, men mask it with words and with fruitless feelings 
of pity and compassion. He who is unfit for struggle becomes unfit also 
for life, its synonym, and no matter how many compassionate hands ex¬ 
tend to support the falling man, they will prove fatally impotent. Even 
worse: intending to support, those same compassionate hands will most 
surely push him into the waiting pit. 32 

Later Andreyev will turn again and again to the question of 
the place of the weak in life ( Life of Vasily Fiveysky, Dark¬ 
ness, Savva), and also to the value of pity ( Darkness, Savva, 
Judas Iscariot, The Seven That Were Hanged). Voluntary 
death as a Nietzschean solution of an unsuccessful life will be 
suggested in Sergey Petrovich. 

Without going into analysis, it is sufficient at this juncture 
merely to indicate wherein Andreyev the journalist anticipates 
Andreyev the artist. For the same purpose one may mention 
here two other motives suggested in the feuilletons and repeated 
in later works. Illusion as a panacea, as a means for lending 
life sense and intensifying it, is advocated in the review of The 
Wild Duck. Man’s power consists not in his logical reasoning, 
but in “his wonderful elasticity, in his exclusive faculty of dis¬ 
covering for himself everywhere and always a ‘wild duck.’ ” 33 
We shall find this note repeated a number of times in his stories 
and plays, in The Little Angel, The Foreigner, The Life of 
Vasily Fiveysky, Savva, Anathema, and elsewhere. Another 
motive is foreshadowed at the conclusion of the review of An 
Enemy of the People. The title of the review is Dissonance, 
suggested by the stolid stupidity of the droshky driver, with 
whom the writer tries to enter into conversation, under the in¬ 
fluence of Ibsen’s drama just witnessed. 

And each of us performed his mission. He drove me, and I thought 
about him. About him and the like of him, beasts and domestics, about 

32 Works — I, p. 295 

33 Ibid., p. 288. 


50 Leonid Andreyev 

their stupidity and bestial feelings, about the gulf which separates them 
from us, loftily solitary in our proud striving toward truth and freedom. 
For a single moment (it was a strange sensation) there flamed up in me 
a hatred for Doctor Stockman, and I had a desire to part with my free 
solitude and to dissolve in this gray, dull mass of semi-humans. Possibly 
I might have in another moment mounted the driver’s box, but luckily 
we came to the end of the journey. 34 

This morbid desire to renounce the responsibility of a cogita¬ 
tive and noble life in exchange for comfortable abandon in the 
mire of the lowly and the degenerate, recurs in Darkness, in 
Sashka Zhegulev, in Professor Storitsyn } in He Who Gets 
Slapped, in Samson Enchained. 

Before parting with this stage in Andreyev’s career, it is in¬ 
teresting to note his early attitude to the reader, and his early 
conception of the mission of the writer. These two points are 
illuminated in the two articles printed at the end of the first 
volume of his Works. He frankly tells the reader that though 
he writes a feuilleton for him day after day, he does not love 
him—that “mail box into which you daily drop a letter.” 35 
The reader picks up indifferently that which may have been 
written with blood and tears, he wants first of all to be amused 
and diverted. Andreyev mitigates his harsh words by consol¬ 
ing himself with the hope that there may be from ten to a score 
readers “akin to him in thought, mood, and feeling,” 36 to atone 
for the prevailing indifference and lack of congeniality. He is 
evidently annoyed by the necessity of entertaining the public. 
“Ah, my reader,” he exclaims, “trust not the feuilletonist when 
he simulates merriment and displays all sorts of verbal somer¬ 
saults for your amusement. He is deceiving you, because this is 
what you want. In truth, he is your jester, don’t you know 
this? A real, genuine jester, of the kind your respectable an¬ 
cestors employed. Trust him not! One cannot trust the 
mirth which you may buy for five copecks, as one cannot trust 
mercenary kisses.” 37 As a pro domo sua observation, this es- 

34 Ibid., p. 280. 

35 Ibid., p. 307. 

36 Ibid., p. 312. 

37 Ibid., p. 305. 


Feuilletons 


51 

timate of the feuilletonist’s role is certainly exaggerated: An¬ 
dreyev never plays to his audience, at any events not in the sub¬ 
stance of his writings. He is apparently disgusted with the 
gayety of the tone which he is forced to employ for the conceal¬ 
ment of his grave contents. As a writer of fiction Andreyev 
usually goes against the grain of the public mood, provoking un¬ 
popularity, and enjoying the freedom of saying what and as 
he pleases. In a letter to Lvov-Rogachevsky he says: “I 
know, the readers hate me; they are facing the sun, while I have 
turned my back on it . . . But, to be sure, I cannot be insincere, 
I cannot write about what I do not live through, I cannot re¬ 
nounce my individuality merely because from every direction 
they shout: ‘Step gayly!’ ” 38 

That a writer must not aspire for success and popularity, was 
Andreyev’s conviction at the very dawn of his career. In the 
concluding article of the first volume of his Works, he speaks 
About the Writer. True, the words emanate from the mouth 
of a phantom visitor, with whom the author is ostensibly ir¬ 
ritated and displeased; but this is the conventional strategy of 
the feuilletonist who introduces a bogus spokesman for his per¬ 
sonal views. In substance, the article discusses the prevailing 
opinion that there are two beings in the artist, one who creates 
and one who lives his private life, and that the two may be quite 
different and divorced. The “visitor” vehemently protests 
against this view, which he holds responsible for the abundance 
of mediocre writers who “shine as do the moon and the stars: 
they illuminate life’s pits and caverns, but give no warmth and 
germinate no new life.” 39 They may have talent, which is a 
necessary thing, just as four legs are necessary for a horse. 

But in the same way as four legs will by themselves not make a steed 
out of an ordinary horse, so will talent alone not make one a writer. 
Through its creative power talent may invent a number of situations 
never experienced by the author himself: in a state of satiety one may ex¬ 
cellently picture the pains of hunger; while perspiring from heat, the 
horrors of death from freezing; in greatest bliss, misfortune. But these 

38 Two Truths, p. 12. The date of the letter is not given. 

39 ffr 0 rks — I, p. 318. 


52 Leonid Andreyev 

will be dead pictures, however skillfully made. They will resemble life 
as much as a wax doll resembles a living person. Of course, many will 
be deceived by the similarity: did not certain crows peck the grapes 
painted by Apelles? Peck they did, but their hunger was not appeased. 
The word of the writer must be sharp as a lancet and hot as fire. . . . 40 

The artist by grace of God is bound to learn and experience 
everything in his own person, to starve and humble himself and 
suffer torture and commit suicide and die—in a word, he must 
go through the Golgotha of the universe before he can fulfill 
Pushkin’s admonition “with his word to burn the hearts of 
men.” Zola’s Germinal is unconvincing because Zola was essen¬ 
tially a sated bourgeois who was “capable of saving up five mil¬ 
lion francs, five million dinners!” Similarly, Gogol’s Poprish- 
chin (in Notes of a Madman ) is but a “wax figure.” On the 
other hand, Dostoyevsky drew his Raskolnikov and his Prince 
Myshkin and his numerous outcasts and sufferers with the ter¬ 
rible convincingness of one who lived through all the hells he 
pictured. Garshin gave us the pathos of madness, because he 
knew the flashes of insanity, and Glyeb Uspensky was able to 
present with such vivid force the peasant “in the grip of the 
soil” precisely for the reason that he renounced the life of com¬ 
fort, went to live in the village, and “wandered across the bosom 
of Russia’s earth as its alarmed conscience.” 41 The queer 
“visitor” would fain have the writers appear as “knights of the 
spirit,” poor in earthly possessions, suffering privation and want, 
following their inner call with no prospect of material gain. 
Of course there will be very few who will undertake this thorny 
road, but these few shall purify the temple and drive the ven¬ 
dors out of the holy precincts. Andreyev says in conclusion: 

Well, I have chased him out. But he is persistent. He will come 
again. Again he will torment me with these unnecessary, absurd conver¬ 
sations—he is persistent and ruthless. And even the consideration of the 
fact that my visitor is only an hallucination does not console me, for it is 
more difficult to get rid of an hallucination than of a tangible person. 42 

*0 Ibid. 

41 Ibid., p. 322. 

42 Ibid., p. 324. 


Feuilletons 


53 

This was a significant visitation on the threshold of Andrey¬ 
ev’s literary career. Indeed, the visitor proved persistent. To 
the very end Andreyev regarded the writer as the bearer of a 
high and responsible mission. And though he achieved mate¬ 
rial success and comfort, he never lost his faculty of experiencing 
suffering and destitution. The “visitor’s” demand that the 
writer live through madness, hunger, horror, even death, was 
in a large measure fulfilled by Andreyev. He lived the trage¬ 
dies of his characters. According to Chukovsky, 

he did not simply write his works; his subjects seized him as if with a 
flame . . . for a time he would become a maniac under its spell. . . . 

. . . While creating his Leiser, the Jew of Anathema, he would in¬ 
voluntarily lapse into the biblical intonation of speech, even in private 
conversations, at tea. For the time he became the Jew himself. And 
when he was writing Sashka Zhegulev , in his voice were heard the Volga 
notes of bold abandon. Unconsciously he adopted the voice, manners and 
the entire spirit of his characters, and became their embodiment, like an 
actor. I remember how one evening he astonished me with his care-free 
merriment. It appeared that he had just finished the description of 
Tsiganok, the daring Orel Gypsy of The Seven That Were Hanged. 
While picturing Tsiganok, he became transformed into him, and by in¬ 
ertia he remained Tsiganok till next morning: the same words, intonation, 
gestures. He became Duke Lorenzo, while writing The Black Maskers, 
and a sailor when writing The Ocean. 43 

The convincing power of Andreyev’s art, which renders some 
of his most extraordinary characters so terribly real and not 
mere wax figures, emanates probably from this spontaneous fac¬ 
ulty of his—to merge body and soul with his characters. Mme. 
Andreyev tells me that in planning aloud a newly conceived 
story or play, her husband would saturate himself with the life 
of each prospective character, mentally investigating his past 
history, his environment, examining minutely his probable man¬ 
ners, habits, idiosyncrasies and predilections. While molding 
each imaginary life, he would be carried away by his creation, 
and would gradually begin to act it, to personify it. Even The 
Red Laugh, which is not evenly persuasive, and where one sus- 
43 Native Land (Rodnaya Zemlia )— III, pp. 31, 32, 33. 


54 Leonid Andreyev 

pects some labored efforts on the part of the author, is reported 
to have affected him so deeply that upon finishing it “his nerves 
were utterly shattered, and for some time he was unable to 
work.” 44 Andreyev told Lvov-Rogachevsky that for a long 
time he could not make himself write down the chapter, “Kiss 
Him and Be Silent,” in The Seven That Were Hanged. The 
scene where the old couple Golovin are saying good-by to their 
son on the eve of his execution cannot be read without emotion 
in spite of or perhaps because of the reserve with which it is 
presented. Andreyev began this chapter several times, unable 
to continue. “Sobbing prevented him from writing.” 45 It is 
precisely for this hysteria, for this inability to detach himself 
from his subject matter, that Merezhkovsky truculently ques¬ 
tions whether Andreyev is an artist: “In contemplating mon¬ 
strosity, he succumbs to monstrosity. In contemplating chaos, 
he becomes chaos.” 46 Be it as it may, the quaint “visitor” 
would have no reason to reproach his host with lacking sympa¬ 
thy with his creatures, with not experiencing the sensations por¬ 
trayed by him. 

Andreyev’s impersonating faculty was apt to produce the im¬ 
pression of affectation. We have seen that even as a child he 

44 Two Truths, p. 67. 

45 Ibid. p. 120. In his description of the first private reading of The Seven 
That Were Hanged, at the author’s residence, A. Izmailov quotes Andreyev as 
follows: “I have just completed a new work which has exhausted me . . . Only 
The Red Laugh had wearied me as much as this story. After that I found no 
strength in myself to undertake any new work for nearly half a year. Now 
the same will probably happen again. Then the impressions of the war settled 
in my heart so arbitrarily that they excluded everything else. At present it’s the 
impressions of being confined in prison, in the grip of a single thought—the im¬ 
pending execution. ... By constant thinking about it, by placing myself con¬ 
tinuously in the position of the condemned, I have created for myself an at¬ 
mosphere of hellish suffering, which has grown extremely heavy these last 
days. On waking up I felt myself in the throes of a depressing thought. It 
seemed to me that I was expecting something, that presently something dreadful 
and oppressive would take place, that some one would come in and announce that 
a misfortune had occurred. Only a few days ago I suddenly understood what 
was the matter. I had simply fixed my thought on the unfortunate seven con¬ 
victs to such a degree that involuntarily I shared their deathly anguish.”— Lit¬ 
erary Olympus, p. 285. 

46 In the Paws of an Ape, January issue of Russian Thought ( Russkaya Mysl) 
for 1908. Reprinted in his Works,— XII, p. 202. Petrograd, 1912. 


Feuilletons 


55 

displayed histrionic predilections. 47 There is something the¬ 
atrical about Andreyev’s expressions, hobbies, photographs, 
even private letters. But it would be a superficial judgment to 
regard him as deliberately theatrical, as a poseur. 48 One is 
rather inclined to suppose that all his life Andreyev desperately 
sought an escape from reality, now in suicide, now in illusory 
roles. With his aptness for divesting himself of his everyday 
self and assuming a new one, he had no difficulty in entering 
whole-heartedly into a fresh role, and playing it with the utmost 
sincerity. This explains not only the convincingness of his char¬ 
acters, who are so many Andreyevs; the need of enacting an 
illusion may also explain the restlessness in his personal life, his 
ardent periodical infatuations, now with color photography, 
now with painting, now with sea voyages, now with the war, 
in which he wished to find a panacea for ugliness, smugness, pet¬ 
tiness. He seemed always to crave for an illusory Beyond, for 
a world other than the one in which he physically lived, for 
“another reality.” Says Chukovsky: 


. . . contradictory opinions exist concerning Andreyev. Some said he 
was conceited. Others, that he was an open soul. One visitor would 
find him acting the part of Savva. Another came upon him as he person¬ 
ified the student from The Days of Our Life. Still another, as Khorre 
the pirate. And every one imagined that he saw Andreyev. They for¬ 
got that before them was an artist who wore hundreds of masks, and 
who sincerely, with ardent conviction, regarded each one of his masks as 
his genuine face. 49 

Such were the motives suggested in Andreyev’s feuilletons, 
with the occasional awkwardness, hesitancy, inconsistency, and 

47 Supra, p. 22. 

48 Yet precisely such was the opinion of most of Andreyev’s acquaintances. J. 
V. Gessen, editor of The Rudder ( Ruhl ), a Russian daily in Berlin, confessed to 
me that he did not take seriously Andreyev’s complaints of ill-health, during 
his stay at Gessen’s home in Finland, shortly before his death. “I took it for one 
of his customary poses,” said Gessen in a tone of astonishment that for once 
Andreyev’s acting was “genuine.” 

49 A Book On Andreyev, p. 49. 


56 Leonid Andreyev 

even banality, which may be ascribed to youth and inexperience. 
They have been dealt with at some length here, because they 
possess the value of an overture, which now dimly, now clearly, 
anticipates the melodies and motives of the main work. 


Ill 

EARLY STORIES 


Andreyev’s first story.—Gorky’s response.—The Znaniye group.—An¬ 
dreyev’s unpartisanship.—Success of his first book.—The 
“Wednesdays.”—His solitude among writers.—Broadening prob¬ 
lems: The Abyss and In Fog. —Attacks and praise, symptom¬ 
atic attitude of the public.—His first wife.—Her death.—His 
gloom.—Growing opposition to his writings. 

Of Andreyev’s main work, Bargamot and Garaska was the 
first story to be published (1908). It was written for the 
Easter issue of the Courier, at the request of Novik. 1 This, 
and four or five of the stories that followed it, though display¬ 
ing indubitable talent, possessed little originality. One felt in 
them the traditional humane warmth of Russian literature, the 
capacity for understanding the lowly, and hence for tout par - 
donner f the endeavor to discover the eternally human at the 
basest rungs of the social and ethical ladder. Bargamot is the 
awe-inspiring policeman of the “bad” neighborhood, and Gar¬ 
aska its incurable drunkard and scrapper. To have these two 
meet on Easter morning, become reconciled and mutually re¬ 
spectful—what a typical Easter story, and what a typical 
Dostoyevsky theme! Andreyev’s early stories were more mod¬ 
ern than Dostoyevsky’s in that they were written in a more im¬ 
pressionistic vein, following closely in the footsteps of Chek¬ 
hov. Yet, though lacking in originality, they attracted the at¬ 
tention of leading Russian writers, and first of all that of Gorky. 

Andreyev’s relations with Gorky are worth recording. His 
senior by two years, Gorky was an international celebrity at the 
time of the “James Lynch” writings. Time and again Andre¬ 
yev in his feuilletons mentions Gorky with admiration and rever- 
1 From My Life. 

57 


58 Leonid Andreyev 

ence. In his article denouncing the whimpering Intelligentsia, he 
consoles himself with the fact that “the time of Maxim Gorky 
has come, of him who is the most vigorous of the vigorous, and 
with this the market rate of melancholy and its representatives 
is falling irresistibly.” 2 For one of his articles he uses the title 
“Madness of the Brave,” followed by the motto: “To the mad¬ 
ness of the brave we chant a song,” from Gorky’s The Song of 
the Falcon . 3 He devotes a special article to the condemnation 
of the curious crowd which annoyed with unceremonious gazing 
and whispering the writers Chekhov and Gorky, when the two 
sat in the foyer of the Moscow Art Theatre, drinking tea. On 
this occasion Gorky addressed the crowd with a few energetic 
remarks which voiced his annoyance at its ill-mannered curiosity. 
Gorky’s conduct was discussed in the press, on the whole sneer- 
ingly. Andreyev came out boldly as the champion of the un¬ 
conventional, blouse-clad singer of the fifth estate. 4 The phan¬ 
tom visitor, while bitterly reproaching the majority of writers 
for their superficial, opera bouffe descriptions of the suffering 
people, says: “All hail to Maxim Gorky: He has come from 
the bottom of life, bringing thence some fresh information on 
his stevedore’s back, in his horny hammer-man’s hands, in his 
broad chest, the chest of a freedom-loving hobo.” 5 

Of his first acquaintance with Gorky, Andreyev related the 
following to Izmailov: 

... It so happened that when the Government suspended the publica¬ 
tion of The Nizhni-Novgorod Leaf (Nizhegorodsky Listok), its sub¬ 
scribers received in its place the Courier, by an arrangement of the publish¬ 
ers. Owing to this, my very first story fell into the hands of Gorky 
[probably during Gorky’s administrative exile to the city of Nizhni- 
Novgorod, 1898-1899]. One day, on coming to our office, I was told 
that Gorky had written to an acquaintance (to N. P. Asheshov, I think), 
asking him who was hiding under the pen name of “Leonid Andreyev.” 
To this inquiry I replied in a personal letter. 

Thus began a correspondence between us, and somewhat later took 

2 Works — I, p. 50. 

3 Ibid., p. 126. 

4 Ibid., pp. 157-161. 

5 Ibid., p. 322. 


Early Stories 59 

place our meeting in person. Alexey Maximovich [Gorky] happened to 
pass through Moscow on urgent business, and made an appointment with 
me to meet him at the railroad station. He was then at the zenith of 
his fame. I recall with what excitement I hurried to the depot, fearing 
to be late, and I remember especially that first moment when I perceived 
his face, so familiar to me from his portraits, his lamb-wool cap, and the 
tight overcoat on his tall figure. 

To him I am infinitely obliged for the clarification of my world out¬ 
look as a writer. Never before my talks with him had I regarded so 
earnestly my work and my gift. He was the first to speak to me of my 
talent—a dubious subject for me—and of my responsibility for the use 
of that talent. He was the first to teach me respect for the loftiness of a 
writer’s profession. 6 

Andreyev has expressed his gratitude to Gorky in warm 
terms. In his first autobiographical sketch he states: “Maxim 
Gorky helped me a great deal with his advice and instruction, 
which I have always found excellent.” 7 This was written 
about 1903. Though there is reason to believe that in subse¬ 
quent years the relations between the two writers became less 
congenial, as we shall see presently, Andreyev declared in 1911 
his indebtedness to Gorky in even more enthusiastic words: 

For the awakening in me of a genuine interest in literature, for the 
consciousness of the importance and strict responsibility of the writer’s 
vocation, I am beholden to Maxim Gorky. He was the first to pay 
earnest attention to my fiction (namely, to my first printed story, Bar- 
agamot and Garaska). He wrote to me, and then for many years he 
lent me his invaluable support through his ever sincere, ever wise and 
severe counsel. In this respect I consider my acquaintance with Gorky 
as the greatest bit of good fortune that has happened to me as a writer. 
If anything at all can be said about persons who have exerted an ac¬ 
tual influence on my literary destiny, then I must point out only Maxim 
Gorky, that ever true friend of literature and men of letters. It is be¬ 
cause of an obvious reserve on my part that I am obliged to refrain from 
a more ardent expression of gratitude and of a deep, singular respect for 
him. 8 

6 Literary Olympus, p. 248. 

7 From My Life. 

8 First Literary Steps, p. 31. Lvov-Rogachevsky adds an interesting detail re- 


60 Leonid Andreyev 

Gorky, a self-made man, rising from the lowest social stratum 
to the heights of literary achievement and leadership, was very 
sympathetic toward young writers, ever on the lookout for some 
latent talent among the timid debutants. His endorsement of 
Andreyev opened for the latter the pages of the Petrograd 
monthlies, those parliaments of public opinion, which in the 
absence of an open political rostrum in the country served as 
clearing houses for the ideas and ideals surging in society. 
Gorky “adopts” Andreyev, spends a vacation with him, 9 and 
draws him into the family of his publishing house, Znaniye 
(Knowledge). Znaniye becomes the centre of the militant lit¬ 
erary youth, the “constellation of Big Maxim,” in the contempo¬ 
rary parlance. Gorky gathers around him such writers as Chir¬ 
ikov, Skitalets, Teleshev, Serafimovich, Gusev-Orenburgsky, 
Veresayev, Aizman, Zaytsev, and even the solitary Chekhov 
blesses the young braves, and contributes his swan song, The 
Cherry Orchard, to the Shornik ( Miscellany ) of Znaniye . 10 
Andreyev finds himself in an at least superficially congenial com¬ 
pany. Though of different temperaments and world outlooks, 
these writers had a common attitude of negative criticism to¬ 
ward existing conditions and institutions, in their external forms, 

garding the mutual attachment and congeniality of the two writers at one stage 
of their career: “During a certain period Maxim Gorky and Leonid Andreyev 
were planning jointly a play, The Astronomer. The idea was not carried out, 
though Gorky wrote his Children of the Sun, and Andreyev To the Stars. The 
chemist armed with his microscope, and the astronomer armed with his telescope, 
are two answers to one question.”—Two Truths, p. 38. Gorky’s play appeared in 
1905, Andreyev’s in 1906. The chemist in the first drama, and the astronomer in 
the second, represent alike the detached scientist who regards the world sub specie 
ceterni. On the whole, however, Andreyev’s play is more optimistic and revo¬ 
lutionary, strange as it may seem in the light of the political stand of these 
writers. While Gorky’s play was produced throughout Russia, that of Andreyev 
was not allowed by the authorities to appear on the stage. 

9 Works— 1 , pp. 187-190. In a description of a trip to the Crimea, Andreyev re¬ 
lates to the readers of the Courier his comical adventures on horseback, in company 
with a friend, “whose loud voice resounded distinctly, pronouncing his o’s in the 
Volga fashion.” In a footnote to this feuilleton, as it appeared in the collected 
Works, the author identifies this friend as M. Gorky. 

10 The Sborniki appeared from time to time in the form of neatly printed books 
containing stories, plays, novels, occasionally poems, by contemporary writers. 
Later translations were added, notably of Verhaeren, Schnitzler, Knut Hamsun, 
Sholom Asch, Walt Whitman. Altogether forty Sborniki were issued beginning 
with the year 1903, and terminating with the war. 


6i 


Early Stories 

and toward the nineteenth century moods and sentiments ex¬ 
tant amidst the Intelligentsia. 11 The Znaniye circle and publi¬ 
cations bore a definite stamp of a revaluing tendency. In the 
reminiscences of one of the last Mohicans of that group, Evgeni 
Chirikov, we find the following observations: 

... the erection of the literary-revolutionary fortress of Znaniye, 
where gathered under the leadership of Gorky almost all the fiction writ¬ 
ers of the time who had revolutionary leanings. I must say that for a 
time this fortress remained unpartisan, in view of the fact that alongside 
of representatives of the new faith [Marxian socialism] there convened 
writers from various shipwrecks of revolutionary thought [Narodniki of 
all shades], as well as writers merely opposed to the regime. 

. . . How could the young, militant Andreyev, bewinged with success, 
help joining this militant group of writers? 

. . . Having received in heritage the testament of world revolution, 
about which Dostoyevsky wrote, and which was bequeathed by one 
generation to the next; burning with a glowing hatred for reaction and 
despotism, with which the conception of the “old world” was associated, 
Andreyev joined Gorky, who, on the one hand, had smashed all bourgeois 
values through his Nietzschean tramps, and, on the other hand, sang 
hymns to the “madness of the brave” and to the “lofty sounding name of 
man” ( chelovyek) . . . Gorky belonged as yet to no party, but was just 
a free lance in the struggle against the “old world,” which trait made him 
akin to Andreyev. The latter entered Znaniye, and since that time the 
names of Gorky and Andreyev have been linked together by their readers 
and admirers. If they speak of Andreyev, they are sure to mention 
Gorky likewise, and vice versa. 12 

There was nothing new or unusual in the tendency of the pub¬ 
lic to regard as a unit writers of different views and allegiances. 
To the Russian reader the names of Pushkin, Lermontov, 
Gogol, Turgenev, Nekrasov, Dostoyevsky, Belinsky, Tolstoy, 
Chernyshevsky, Dobrolyubov, Pisarev, Mikhailovsky, Korol¬ 
enko, Chekhov, Gorky, Andreyev signify an artistic and ethical 
unit, an expression of the national consciousness and conscience, 
a united struggle against oppression and pettiness, regardless of 
the individual leanings and mutual contrasts of these men. 

11 Supra, p. 9 ff. 

12 Russian Miscellanies— 11 , pp. 64, 65. 


62 Leonid Andreyev 

They were all ramming the same hostile wall, they were all sow¬ 
ing seeds of doubt, discontent, and criticism, even when they 
were conservatives like Gogol, Slavophils like Aksakov, reli¬ 
gious seekers like Vladimir Soloviev, Nihilists like Pisarev, or 
principleless egoists like Artsibashev. As negators, they were 
a unit. But when it came to saying “Aye,” their differences 
were many and irreconcilable. 

The difference between Gorky and Andreyev, a difference of 
natures and temperaments, inevitably came to the surface in con¬ 
nection with the choice of a positive ideal in the immediate pres¬ 
ent. To use Turgenev’s classification of individuals, Gorky 
proved a Don Quixote, eager for action by all means, whereas 
Andreyev showed his Hamlet temperament. In his story, 
Ghosts y Andreyev portrays two inmates of an insane asylum, 
one of whom spends all his time in knocking at doors, while the 
other, Yegor, is bustling with activity around the place, helping 
the doctors and nurses, caring for the patients, and making him¬ 
self generally useful. Gorky quotes Andreyev’s admission: 
“The madman who knocks, is myself, and the active Yegor is 
you. It is in you to feel confident of your power: that is the 
central point of your madness and of the madness of all your 
kindred romanticists, idealizers of reason, who are divorced 
from life through their dream.” 13 Both hated the oppressive 
regime, but while Gorky translated his hatred into deeds, and 
actively supported the revolutionary movement, Andreyev 
found himself in no position to subscribe definitely to any party 
or movement. According to Chirikov, Gorky joined the So¬ 
cial-Democratic party as early as 1903, an d * n I 9°4 <was 
appropriated for special use by its Bolshevik faction, which 
guarded him in strict paternal fashion, protecting him” against 
their opponents and Marxian heretics. Chirikov goes on to 
say: 

As long as Bolshevism remained a family affair within the Social- 
Democratic party, everything was calm in the fortress of Znaniye. But 
with the advent of the revolution of 1905, the situation changed. M. 

13 A Book on Andreyev, p. 20. 


Early Stories 63 

Gorky, who had joined Lenin’s first attempt at rendering the revolution 
permanent, left Russia after the bitter failure of this attempt, and settled 
on the island of Capri, where he shut himself up definitely within the 
Bolshevik party circle. He retained his rights as editor and “boss” [of 
Znaniye ], and the group of writers began to feel the quite transparent 
guardianship of the Bolsheviki. An effort was made to shake off this 
protectorate from the island of Capri: the group of writers, under the 
pretext of the inconveniences connected with editorship from a distance, 
elected Andreyev as editor of the Sborniki. At first Gorky consented, 
but soon he changed his mind. Then all the writers, headed by Andreyev, 
abandoned the fortress, which fell under the exclusive management of 
the Bolsheviki. The quite accidental companionship of Andreyev and 
Gorky broke off abruptly. . . , 14 

The roads of the two young and successful writers parted. 
One of them threw himself heart and soul into the revolutionary 
movement, exalting the all-powerful Narod in a neo-Narodnik 
manner, and championing the cause of the toiling masses against 
their political and economic oppressors as the solution of all 
doubts and problems. The other remained “with his back 

14 Russian Miscellanies — II, pp. 67, 68. E. Chirikov has enjoyed an established 
reputation as a writer of stories and plays, and as a reviewer of provincial life for 
the daily and monthly press. With all due respect for his fame and achievements, 
one is inclined to accept some of his present utterances with a considerable grain 
of salt: the embittered exile speaks in him. Maxim Gorky has never been a fanat¬ 
ical adherent of one faction or another. While having faith in the programme of 
the Bolsheviki before the revolution, he vehemently attacked their policy and tactics 
after their victory in November, 1917 (a collection of his denunciatory articles ap¬ 
peared in 1918 in Berlin, under the title, The Revolution and Culture (Revolutsia i 
kultura). Nor was he controlled by the Bolsheviki. During his Capri sojourn 
Gorky contributed stories and articles to such organs as the Menshevik monthly 
The Contemporary World (Sovremenny Mir), and the Social-Revolutionary monthly 
Legacies (Zavyety ). Again, it requires a fantastic imagination to detect any Bol¬ 
shevik “guardianship” or “management” in the Sborniki of Znaniye, before or 
after the revolution of 1905. A perusal of the novels, dramas, stories and poems— 
that is, of all the material which was published in these books—disproves Chiri¬ 
kov’s statement. The only tendency that can be discovered in some of these writ¬ 
ings may be called socialistic in the sense that the city workmen, their struggles 
and aspirations, are extolled. But E. Chirikov himself would have signed his 
name to those contributions, since he was a converted Marxian, according to his 
admission in the article quoted (p. 61). Then, too, not “all” the writers left the 
“fortress.” Ivan Bunin, for example, also a bitter exile at present, continued to 
contribute to the Sborniki to the end. Even Andreyev, in spite of his secession and 
his joining a rival publication, Wild Rose (Shipovnik) , in 1906, appeared in the* 
Sborniki with his Savva (1906), with his Judas Iscariot (1907); and as late as 
1908 he shared with Knut Hamsun the twenty-sixth Sbornik, with his Days of Our 


64 Leonid Andreyev 

against the sun,” a “Nay” sayer par excellence, a doubter, a 
merciless examiner and prosecutor. It required courage and 
unblinking sincerity for a member of the Intelligentsia, a young 
writer admiringly listened to by an expectant audience, to stay 
aloof, “above the battle,” nay, to question and disparage the 
revered ideal. “Unpartisan” 15 he remained both in life and 
in art, binding himself to no platform or programme, and there¬ 
fore in a position to preserve objectivity and perspective. 

In spite of their acute differences, Gorky and Andreyev did 
not break all relations, as Chirikov’s statement might lead one 
to believe. “There was hardly a single fact, a single question, 
which Leonid Nikolayevich and I regarded in a similar way, 
yet our numerous divergences did not prevent us—for entire 
years—from feeling for one another . . . the profound con¬ 
cern and interest which do not often come as a result of even 

Life. Andreyev’s attitude toward Gorky even six years after the alleged break 
—that is, in 1911—may be seen from his autobiographical note quoted on p. 59. 

15 See Vengerov’s statement, supra, p. 31. According to Gorky, “in the essence 
of his spirit Andreyev was profoundly indifferent toward politics, only rarely 
displaying fits of external curiosity for them. His basic relation to political events 
he expressed most sincerely in his story Thus It IVas" ( A Book on Andreyev, p. 
25). This story, as will appear later, voices an utter skepticism in regard to 
political revolution and popular freedom. 

E. Chirikov states: “Andreyev never was a member of a party. A man of 
broad mental and artistic horizons, he felt an instinctive repugnance for our Social- 
Democrats. They seemed wingless to him, because they limited man’s thought 
and will by various frontier posts and ditches. Of all the varieties of revolu¬ 
tionists, he regarded the Social-Revolutionists with most sympathy: in them there 
was heroism, there was triumph of the spirit over death itself, there was an ap¬ 
proach toward that man which “sounds loftily.” ( Russian Miscellanies — II, p. 67.) 

A curious detail: Early in 1905 Andreyev “discharged the universal Russian 
duty” (as he expressed himself in The Shield (Shchit —p. 4, Moscow, 1916, 3rd 
edition); i. e., he spent a month in jail. Lvov-Rogachevsky names the port of 
Taganrog as the place of his arrest ( Two Truths, p. 68), but there is reason 
to give more credence to Gorky’s statement that it was in Moscow, where “at the 
residence of Andreyev the meeting of the central committee of the Social-Democrats 
(Bolsheviki) used to take place. Once the entire committee together with the host 
were arrested and haled to prison” ( A Book on Andreyev, p. 27). Of course this 
fact does in no way indicate Andreyev’s adherence to that party: under the old 
regime it was customary for unpartisan but sympathetic persons to assist revolu¬ 
tionary organizations with their residences and mailing addresses. Yet he would 
hardly have acted in this manner had he felt a “repugnance” for the Social- 
Democrats, as Chirikov alleges. 

The fact of Andreyev’s aloofness from all parties is not absolutely without 
doubt, as far as the last years of his life are concerned. The London Times for 
October 17, 1917, has the following brief dispatch: “Andreyev elected member of 


Early Stories 65 

an old friendship.” 16 These are the words of Gorky, spoken 
retrospectively, after the passing of his old enemy-friend. 
Aside from their views, the two men were honest and sincere 
enough to recognize one another’s talent and literary mission, to 
regard themselves as members of the same guild, as fellow art¬ 
ists by the grace of God. Even during the war, when their 
attitudes became most antagonistic, Andreyev sent his collected 
Works to Gorky (in 1915), with the inscription: “Since Bar - 
gamot of the Courier days, everything here has been written 
and created before your eyes, Alexey. In many respects my 
work is the history of our relations.” 17 The Bolshevik coup 
threw the two men still further apart; Andreyev, lonely and sick 
in his exile, hurled invectives at Gorky for compromising with 
the “butchers,” for having “sold” himself. Gorky did not 
“blame him for this attitude,” “for he [Andreyev] had been 
such as he desired and was able to be—a man of rare original¬ 
ity, of a rare talent, and of no little manliness in his quest after 
truth.” 18 The relations between the two writers were mutu¬ 
ally significant and eventful, even if not always congenial and 
friendly. 

To return to Andreyev’s first steps, it is worth noting the 
encouragement he received as a new writer. With the aid of 
Gorky, the “James Lynch” of the Courier became a contributor 
to the leading monthlies, and his stories roused discussion and 

the preliminary Parliament.” This took place in the last days of Kerensky’s 
regime. Mr. Gregory Zilboorg, an official in the Ministry of Labor at that time 
and the author of The Passing of the Old Order in Europe (New York, 1920) 
told me emphatically that Andreyev was elected on the ticket of the Cadets, the 
party of Prince Lvov and Milyukov, which he had ridiculed in The Pretty Sabine 
Women. In reply to my inquiry, Professor Milyukov wrote that he was unaware 
of Andreyev’s membership in his party, but that Andreyev’s views at that time 
were very close to those of the Kadets. Mme. Andreyev assured me that her 
husband was elected to the pre-parliament as a representative of the Petrograd 
newspaper editors. In a letter to Goloushev, written about that time, Andreyev 
confirms the last assertion. In those days, however, the case was not so much of 
party issues as of a national problem. To Andreyev the disintegration of the 
army and the spreading influence of the Bolsheviki appeared as a national dis¬ 
aster, to avert the consequences of which he was willing to support all those whom 
he regarded as patriots and pro-ally. 

16 A Book on Andreyev , p. 8. 

17 Ibid., p. 18. 

18 Ibid., p. 38. 


66 Leonid Andreyev 

polemic. That his rapid fame was not due to any “pull,” but to 
the intrinsic quality of his work, may be seen from the following 
incident retold many times. 19 After the appearance of the 
story Once There Lived ( Zhili-byli) in the Marxian monthly, 
Life ( Zhizn ), for March, 1901, the fastidious critic, Merezh- 
kovsky, inquired in an agitated tone whether it was Gorky or 
Chekhov who was hiding under the pseudonym of Leonid An¬ 
dreyev. This story was noticed also by A. Izmailov, a critic 
catering to the popular taste, who praised the author’s “fine 
sense of stylistic beauty,” hjs “concise and vigorous language, 
perfectly truthful and sustained in dialogue,” and concluded 
that “if he be indeed a beginner, one may regard him with 
hopes.” 20 In September of the same year there came out the 
first volume of Andreyev’s stories, dedicated to Maxim Gorky, 
and published by Znaniye. The success of this volume is 
illustrated by the following figures, furnished by Lvov-Rogachev- 
sky. 21 The first edition of four thousand copies was sold out 
in two months; the second edition of eight thousand, 
which included two additional stories, The Wall ( Stena ), 
and The Abyss (Bezdna ), was exhausted in two weeks. In all, 
Znaniye issued nine successive editions of this volume, forty- 
seven thousand copies, a goodly number for a beginner, if one 
considers the small and discriminating reading public of Russia. 
The triumph of the young writer was further enhanced when 
his first book was favorably reviewed by the dean of Russian 
publicists, N. K. Mikhailovsky, for thirty years the dictator of 
Russian criticism. His monthly article, Literature and Life f in 
the leading Narodnik monthly, Russians Riches ( Russkoye 
Bogatstvo) , for November, 1901, Mikhailovsky devoted to An¬ 
dreyev’s first volume, comparing its impression on him with that 
produced by Dostoyevsky’s Poor Folk on Nekrasov and Dostoy¬ 
evsky. The critic found “indubitable, genuine originality” in 
the stories, with a consistent leit-motif defined by Mikhailovsky 
as the “fear of life, and fear of death.” 22 He predicted a 

19 Cited in Two Truths, p. 44. 

20 Bourse Gazette (Birzhevyia Vyedomosti) , April 9, 1901. 

21 Two Truths, p. 45. 

22 It should be observed that the first volume did not include Bargamot and 


Early Stories 67 

great future for the author, with one grave provision: that he 
rid himself of the dangerous predilection for “disembodied ab¬ 
stractions,” shown in The Lie (Lozh) . This was the only piece 
in the volume which “disturbed” the veteran realist, who con¬ 
sistently waged war against “fog” and “vagueness” in litera¬ 
ture, condemning not only the Decadents of the nineties, but 
even Dostoyevsky’s “abstractions.” 23 On the whole the crit¬ 
ics were remarkably unanimous in their optimism about the fate 
of the new writer. Beside Izmailov and Mikhailovsky, he was 
warmly greeted by Mirsky (E. A. Soloviev), 24 by A. Bogdano¬ 
vich, 25 by Botsianovsky, 26 by Skabichevsky, 27 by Protopopov, 28 
by Shulyatikov, 29 by Burenin, 30 by Yasinsky, 31 to name only the 
metropolitan critics. He was hailed as a keen observer of 
life, while Yasinsky considered him a “psychologist-explorer,” 

Garaska, From the Life of Captain Kablukov, Young Men, and Defense . These 
stories had the traditional “good” note of Russian literature, each one showing 
man’s better feeling prevailing against his evil impulses. Without these, the vol¬ 
ume gave a uniformly gloomy impression. 

23 In a set of his Works presented to Andreyev, Mikhailovsky inscribed: “To 
Leonid Andreyev from the author who loves him in spite of The Lie and The 
Wall” Andreyev acknowledged his indebtedness to Mikhailovsky for “establish¬ 
ing his reputation.” After his article in Russia’s Riches, Mikhailovsky wrote to 
Andreyev, gave him some suggestions, and requested a story for his monthly. 
Andreyev sent him his Thought ( Mysl ), but the veteran critic evidently regarded 
this story as negatively as he did The Lie, for he rejected it. “He returned it 
to me,” said Andreyev, “with a letter in which he stated that he failed to un¬ 
derstand such a story. What ideagenous meaning did it contain? And if it was 
merely a clinical picture of a person’s mental debacle, then he did not feel suf¬ 
ficiently competent to judge how correctly I drew the psychology of the sick man. 
Only a psychiatrist could judge in this case.”— Literary Olympus, p. 250. The 
story Thought was published in 1902 in another leading monthly, God’s World 
( Mir Bozhiy ). During the same year Mikhailovsky published in his magazine 
Andreyev’s story The Foreigner (Inostranets) , which was free from “abstractions.” 

24 Everybody’s Magazine, November, 1901. 

25 God’s World, November, 1901. 

26 Literary Messenger, January, 1902. 

27 News ( Novosti ), January, 1902. 

28 Russian Thought (Russkaya Mysl), March, 1902. 

29 The Moscow Courier, October 9, 1901. 

30 New Times (Novoye Vremya), January, 1902. 

31 Monthly Writings (Yezhemesyachnyia Sochineniya ), December, 1901. 

J. J. Yasinsky, an old and popular writer, said among other things: “I had 
no knowledge of Andreyev. On the night when I began to read his stories, and 
could not part from them till dawn, till I finished the whole book, I perceived 
that a new star had risen. Of this I am convinced. It flared up in a bright 
silvery light across the horizon, and pierced the gloom of the early Petersburg 
morning with its beautiful and mysterious radiance.” 


68 Leonid Andreyev 

though he, too, like Mikhailovsky, took exception to The Lte, 
finding it “un-Russian.” 

There is no external or autobiographic evidence as to the 
effect of these critics on the young writer; it is doubtful whether 
the effect could have been profound or fruitful (the question of 
outside influences on Andreyev will be discussed later). We 
have cited his acknowledgment of Gorky’s beneficial guidance, 
but until the publication of the correspondence between the two 
men (probably not before Gorky’s death) we are unable to 
trace the direction of Gorky’s criticism. In later years An¬ 
dreyev recalled with gratitude the Moscow 1 Wednesdays, an 
informal gathering of authors, where they discussed one an¬ 
other’s works. He was received into the circle about the year 
1899, and continued to attend the “Wednesdays as long as he 
lived in Moscow (to the end of 1905) • Among the regular 
members of these assemblies were the brothers Bunin, Belousov, 
Teleshev, Goloushev, Timkovsky, Goltsev, Serafimovich, Shaly¬ 
apin (the singer) ; less regular visitors were Gorky, Skitalets, 
Yelpatyevsky, Veresayev, Chirikov, Zlatovratsky, Boborykin, 
Zaytsev, Chekhov, and even the Symbolist poets, Balmont and 
Bryusov. Every Wednesday some new production would be 
read by one of the authors, followed by frank and at times 
harsh criticism on the part of those present. According to 
Zaytsev, the most frequent reader was Andreyev. 32 The first 
story of his to be read at the “Wednesdays” was Silence. The 
author was too timid, and Gorky read the story with deep emo¬ 
tion, which was shared by the entire gathering. 33 Andreyev 
needed sympathy and support, but as any beginner he was in 
even greater need of restraint; at the Wednesdays he re¬ 
ceived a generous portion of both favorable and adverse criti¬ 
cism. “Once,” he relates, “I read there a story, Furniture. 
They reviled it so earnestly that I never attempted to have it 
published.” 34 Teleshev recalls a similar case, with a story of 


32 A Book on Andreyev, p. 78. 

33 ibid., pp. 93, 94. Teleshev’s reminiscences. 

34 Two Truths, p. 213. 


Early Stories 69 

Andreyev, which he names The Shrew (Buyamkha). It is 
likely that they refer to the same case, one of them erring about 
the title. Seven or eight years after that incident Teleshev 
requested Andreyev to donate a story for some charity book, 
and since the latter had nothing ready on hand, Teleshev asked 
for the story rejected by the “Wednesday” group. This An¬ 
dreyev refused to do, in an indignant tone, but promised to send 
him a fresh story. 35 

It is doubtful whether Andreyev felt intrinsically at home with 
the circle of the “Wednesdays,” though he appeared with them 
in various photographic groups, and always recalled them with 
warmth. 36 The majority of those writers (Chekhov, of course, 
must be excepted; but he was a rare guest) belonged to the 
“constellation of Big Maxim,”—that is, they were vigorous be¬ 
lievers in the efficiency of the socialistic movement, and in the 
grandeur and heroism of the nascent proletariat. Andreyev 
was constitutionally a doubter, a “court reporter” who could 
see both sides of the case, an observer with a perspective. The 
year 1905, replete with grandiose upheavals, ardent hopes and 
black disappointments, demonstrated Andreyev’s inability to be 
carried away by the reigning enthusiasm. After his release 
from prison, 37 Andreyev wrote The Governor, a dispassionate 
psychological study suggested by the Bloody Sunday of January 
22, 1905. In October of the same year, the month of the gen¬ 
eral strike, of mad hopes, blinding achievements, important 
concessions by the tsar, and manifestations of popular ecstasy 
and power, Andreyev composed his Thus It Was. “Thus it 
was, thus it will be” was the refrain of this narrative of a revo¬ 
lution, picturing the pettiness and helplessness of human masses, 
inward slaves and cowards regardless of political changes. 
This must have been the last story read by Andreyev for the 
“Wednesdays,” judging from the impression it produced on its 
hearers, recorded by V. Brusyanin: 

35 A Book on Andreyev, p. 94. 

38 In his diary (undated entry in 1919) Andreyev spoke of the “Wednesdays” as 
his “second childhood period,” from which he retained the memory of being re¬ 
garded as a Wunderkind. 

37 Supra, p. 64, footnote 15. 


70 Leonid Andreyev 

The story Thus It Was, just completed, was read by the author at one 
of the literary “Wednesdays,” and I remember with what a distraught 
sense of expectation we rode through the Moscow streets toward the 
house where the reading was to take place. The streets were empty, 
timid lights flickered in the houses [the strike was on], military patrols 
rode to and fro, and at the corners policemen stood in twos . . . and I 
recall what a dissonance the concluding lines of the story seemed to the 
hearers. Thus it was, thus it will be: men will conquer their king, then 
shout over his grave: “Long live the Twenty-first!” 

And I remember that many of those present attacked the author: Why 
was he trying to destroy the illusions on which we then lived? . . . 
And I cannot forget with what sadness in his eyes Leonid Andreyev, 
his face pale, defended his lack of faith. He said to us: “Live 
through your lack of faith, overcome it, in order that you may live and 
believe.” 39 

He must have felt a stranger among his fellow writers, with 
his keen discernment of delusions, with his determination to 
approach life, and embrace it, through doubt and denial, after 
having perceived it with the eyes of Schopenhauer. 40 More¬ 
over, he differed from the men of the “Wednesdays” in that, 
as Chukovsky suggests, “they were genre-writers, agitated by 
questions of passing everydayness and not of existence, while 
he was the only one in their midst who meditated about the 
eternal and the tragic.” 41 The “disembodied abstraction” 
which appeared to Mikhailovsky as “a small black cloud,” and 
which, he hoped, would disperse, grew crescendo as a motive in 
the art of Andreyev. After the “disturbing” Lie (1900) came 
The Wall and The Tocsin ( both in 1901), Thought (1902), 
The Red Laugh (1904), written in a similar tone and manner. 
At the same time even those of his stories which were not “dis¬ 
embodied abstractions,” but dealt with flesh-and-blood individu¬ 
als in a realistic style, acquired a broad significance, involving 

39 V. Brusyanin, L. Andreyev, p. 12. When Andreyev had read the manuscript 
of Thus It IVas to Gorky, the latter queried with some annoyance whether the 
story was not “a bit precipitate” (A Book on Andreyev, p. 27). Subsequent 
events proved the correctness of Andreyev’s misgivings. 

40 Supra, p. 46. 

41 A Book on Andreyev, p. 51. 


Early Stories 71 

universal problems of perpetual value. While most of his 
predecessors and contemporaries in Russian literature inter¬ 
preted a certain section of life, within limits of space and time, 
Andreyev began to indulge more and more in treating life sub 
specie aternitatis, in setting forth broad problems, where in¬ 
dividuals and places serve as mere algebraic symbols. He be¬ 
gins to display this tendency as early as 1902 ( The Abyss) 
and 1903 ( Life of Vasily Fiveysky). 

The frankness with which Andreyev put forth the questions 
and doubts that troubled his mind, shocked even the Russian 
reading public, long accustomed to a gloveless treatment of deli¬ 
cate issues. Thus his Abyss and In Fog, both published in 1902, 
aroused a storm of protests in the press. He tried to show 
that our ego is terribly complex and mysterious, that it may 
contain brutal elements of which we are not aware until the 
moment when unexpectedly they emerge and manifest their 
power. But his demonstration of evil was interpreted by a part 
of the public as enjoyment and advocacy of evil, while others 
accused him of slandering the human race, and in particular 
the noble, idealistic Russian youth. Andreyev became the 
centre of a polemic. He was vehemently attacked not only 
in such a conservative organ as the New Times, but even in the 
ultra-modernist review, The Balance (Vesy ), and in the monthly 
of modern mystics, The New Path (Novy Put y ) . The wife of 
Leo Tolstoy in a letter to the editor of the New Times 42 
thanked its contributor, Burenin, for stigmatizing Andreyev as 
an erotomaniac, 43 and proceeded to point out the danger to 
society of such a writer as Andreyev, who clips the wings of the 
readers, “wings given to each one of them for lofty flights to¬ 
ward spiritual light, beauty, charity, and God.” She further 
admonished the modern authors that even in depicting evil they 
must follow in the footsteps of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, and 
“should not illuminate the aspects of filth and vice, but should 
combat them through illumining the highest ideals of good and 
truth, and their triumph over evil, weakness, and vice.” The 

42 January, 1903, No. 9673. 

42 In No. 9666. 


72 Leonid Andreyev 

Countess typified the nineteenth-century attitude of Russia to¬ 
ward literature as primarily an uplifting factor. More sur¬ 
prising was the reaction of Anton Krayny (pseudonym of Zina¬ 
ida Hippius, wife of D. S. Merezhkovsky), a leading Symbol¬ 
ist poet and critic, on the pages of The Balance , at that time the 
organ of the most extreme literary tendencies and of the most 
indifferent moral standard. 44 A. Krayny portrayed Andreyev 
as sitting on the bank of a river after an autumn rain, slowly 
scooping the slush with his hand, and watching with glee how 
it smacks and creeps down his compressed fingers. 45 The label 
of “filth” was applied to Andreyev’s work also by V. Rosanov, 46 
a brilliant sensuous essayist, while Professor Manasseyin took 
Andreyev to task for some inaccuracies from the medical point 
of view, shown in his In Fog .* 1 

On the other hand, Andreyev’s merciless analysis of human 
nature found vigorous defenders in such public-spirited critics 
as A. Bogdanovich, 48 E. Soloviev, 49 E. Anichkov, 50 A. Bo- 
strem, 51 Father Michael, 52 P. Ivanov, 53 V. Botsyanovsky, 54 and 
in the larger part of the young generation. Two prominent 
daily papers, the Moscow Russian Gazette ( Russkiya Vyedom- 
osti ), and the Petrograd News ( Novosti ), opened their pages 
for a discussion of Andreyev’s two stories. A large number of 
letters appeared there during the month of January, 1903, for 

44 The Balance published not only poems and prose glorifying sexual experi¬ 
ences, but also panegyrics to Lesbian love and sodomism. The editor, V. Bryusov, 
has written powerful erotic verse and prose, while a novel by one of his con¬ 
tributors, M. Kuzmin, Wings ( Kryl’ya ), was withdrawn from circulation by order 
of the authorities, because of its open praise of homosexual relations. 

45 The Balance, March, 1903. 

46 The New Times, January, 1903, No. 9677. 

47 The New Path, August, 1903. 

48 God’s World, January, 1903. 

49 Under the pseudonym of Andreyevich, in An Essay on the Philosophy of Rus¬ 
sian Literature ( Opyt filosofii russkoy literatury ), pp. 509-511. Petrograd, 1904. 

50 In Literary Images and Opinions (Literaturnyic ohrazy i mnyeniya), p. 184 
ff. Petrograd, 1904. 

51 Education (Obrazovaniye) , December, 1903. 

52 To Fathers and Children ( Otsam i dyetyam ), Moscow, 1904. 

03 To the Enemies of Leonid Andreyev (Vragam Leonida Andreyeva ), Moscow, 
1904. 

54 Leonid Andreyev, Petrograd, 1903. 


Early Stories 73 

the most part by university students. 55 Nearly all of these 
agreed with the critics who took the author’s side, namely, that 
in the first place, the presence of the brute in man is a probabil¬ 
ity, and not a slander, and secondly, that by showing us evil 
as it is, without dilution or adornment, Andreyev was benefiting 
his readers rather than corrupting them. During the early 
stages of the discussion the author himself took part in it. Un¬ 
der the pen name of James Lynch, he devoted a feuilleton to 
the abusers of The Abyss, in which he said in part: 

In this naive complacency of cultured people, in their ignorance of the 
boundaries of their own ego (or more precisely, in Nietzche’s termi¬ 
nology, of their self), I see danger for their further development and for 
the humanization of their imperfect species. 56 

In reply to those who accused him of slandering the race, 
he wrote: 

How can one “slander” those on whose conscience lies, to say the least, 
the Anglo-Boer war, or the Chinese campaign? They boast of the fact 
that there have been prophets among men—but is it not true that they 
have slain their prophets? . . . The horror of our false and deceptive life 
lies precisely in the fact that we do not notice the brute. When he stirs 
and raises his voice, we regard the sound as the yelp of a lap dog, which 
we take for a walk and treat good-humoredly with a lump of sugar: 
“Eat, dearie, and calm yourself.” And when on a certain nasty day the 
pampered beast will tear the little chain, break loose, and devour both 
ourselves and our neighbors, then we are amazed and stunned, and refuse 
to believe: it must be an infamous invention! 57 

“James Lynch” concluded with an appeal to the lovers of 
man that they “mercilessly bait the brute,” for “all beasts are 
afraid of light.” He was echoed somewhat later by the critic 
E. Soloviev, who ended his essay in praise of Andreyev with 
the following words: 

One should endeavor to destroy the prejudice that all is well and safe; 
one should tear the mask of complacency and propriety from a life which 

55 Particularly in the issues 53, 59, 67 of the Moscow daily, and in the issues 
46 and 47 of the Petrograd daily. 

56 The Moscow Courier , No. 27, 1902. 

57 Ibid. 


74 Leonid Andreyev 

hides in itself corruption, hypocrisy, spiritual pauperism. What Andreyev 
did was to point out how our most precious possession—the children 
perish, perish as victims of vulgar and filthy vice, in the very society 
which turns its back on whatever contains freedom and truth. 58 

The year 1901 brought unrelieved praise to Andreyev; the 
critics greeted him warmly, with an occasional note of reserva¬ 
tion in regard to the further steps of the young writer, who was 
still in the stage of finding himself. But within the next year, 
1902, Andreyev revealed his real face to the public, which be¬ 
came thenceforth divided in its reaction to the merciless analyst. 
The reception of The Abyss and In Fog was to be typical of the 
response aroused by his subsequent works. Only such litter¬ 
ateurs par excellence as A. P. Chekhov were able to consider 
Andreyev’s productions from the purely artistic point of view, 
regardless of their subject matter and “problem.” 59 To the 
great majority of his readers and critics, nearly every new story 
or play by Andreyev was a challenge, a shock, a blow, provok¬ 
ing violent revulsion or intense admiration. His solitude 
among his fellow writers became poignantly marked. In his 
diary 60 he recalls the impression he made on his contempo¬ 
raries: “A queer head emerged on a snakelike neck, with a 
pale face and eyes that were not good: I have come.” He 
goes on relating the effect which the reading of In Fog produced 
on the “Wednesday” gathering. “They bit their lips mali¬ 
ciously, they grew inwardly pale.” Some one spoke of a rumor 
concerning a youth who committed suicide after reading In Fog. 
Malignant looks at the author. What would he say, they 
asked him, if that rumor proved correct? “I should be grati¬ 
fied,” he answered, and recalled that once before he had said 
this. Indeed, he discovered among his early diaries an entry, 

58 An Essay on the Philosophy of Russian Literature, pp. 510-511. 

59 In those days of noise and fuss around the name of Andreyev, Chekhov wrote 
to him in one of his letters: “Your Foreigner I like very much. This story and In 
Fog are two serious steps forward. These already possess much calm, and show 
the author’s confidence in his power; there is very little of the writer’s nervous¬ 
ness in them. The dialogue between the father and the son in the story In Fog is 
done calmly, and deserves not less than excellent-plus.”—A. P. Chekhov, Letters 
(Pisma ), Petrograd, 1911, dated January 2, 1903. 

60 Dated June 16, 1918. 


Early Stories 75 

during the year 1891, in which he outlined his literary ambi¬ 
tion. 61 In substance, he expressed there his desire to show to 
man, “on the basis of the past thousands of years of science, 
art, history, etc.,” that life is folly, destitute of freedom, death 
being the only freedom. “I desire that those who read me 
should grow pale and commit suicide, that I should be hated 
and cursed, yet read nevertheless. When I hear of the first 
death on my account, I shall be glad.” With all due allowance 
for the exaggerated expressions of a bombastic youth, one has 
to agree with Andreyev that his early forecast proved correct 
on the whole. As he grew mature, he freed himself from the 
puerile desire to epater les bourgeois, but his writings continued 
to cause “inward pallor” and violent jolts to his readers and 
critics. 

The number of Andreyev’s adverse critics grew with the in¬ 
crease of the gods he denied. Religionists attacked him for 
his Life of Vasily Fiveysky, for his Savva, Judas Iscariot, and 
other “heretical” productions; Vyacheslav Ivanov, Rosanov, 
Merezhkovsky, Filosofov, abused him in the secular press, and 
the clergy succeeded in procuring the Government’s suppression 
of Savva and Anathema for stage presentation. While the 
conservative press, notably The New Times, called Andreyev a 
firebrand of the revolution, the socialistic organs accused him 
of anti-revolutionary sentiments; both sides could cite abundant 
instances in favor of their indictments. Among his Marxian 
opponents, Adamovich, Orlovsky, and Lunacharsky, the last 
named was the most formidable enemy, since he skillfully em¬ 
ployed his dialectic method of argument, and, while praising 
Andreyev for some merits, attacked him vehemently for what 
he considered his incurable “philistinism.” Thus while noting 
with approval that Andreyev zealously attempted to destroy, 
Samson-like, the temples of the Philistines, the future Bolshevik 
Commissar of Education was alarmed to see that the author be¬ 
gan to “shake the pillars of the temples of true gods,” that he 
raised his hand against genuine values. 62 In another article 

61 Supra, p. 27. 

62 In New from Abroad (Zagranichnaya Gazetta ), No. 3, 1908. 


76 Leonid Andreyev 

during the same year Lunacharsky branded Andreyev “Heros- 
tratus,” condemned his Judas as a slander against humanity, 
and his Darkness and Tsar Hunger as defamations of the rev¬ 
olution and of the working class. 63 Andreyev was evidently 
hurt by the attack from the “left,” as one can judge from the 
tone of the interview he gave to A. Izmailov: 

Because of Tsar Hunger party critics accuse me of lack of faith in the 
victory of Socialism. In the book, Literary Disintegration, dedicated to 
the struggle with the monstrosities in modern literature, from the point 
of view of the proletarian world outlook, Lunacharsky accuses me of a 
calumnious portrayal of the working class. The idea of Tsar Hunger 
has been interpreted as the bankruptcy of the revolution. Perhaps I am 
myself to be blamed in a certain measure for being so understood. I have 
not made it sufficiently plain that this was a picture of mere mutiny, 
and not of a real revolution. True, one of my personages says there: 
“Do not insult the revolution—this is a mutiny,” but such a remark is, in¬ 
deed, not sufficient. If the public knew the whole plan of my work, if they 
knew that after “War and Peace,” over which I am thinking at present, 
was to follow a special part, “Revolution,” they would not taunt me with 
this reproach. Rather would they reproach me with excessive optimism. 64 

The Modernists of The Balance continued to regard An¬ 
dreyev with diffidence and contempt. Bryusov credited him 
with possessing talent, but considered him stupid and uncultured, 
and jeered at the popularity of The Life of Man, which vied 
with the vogue of Lehar’s comic opera, The Merry Widow. 65 
Zinaida Hippius carried the battle abroad, and introduced An¬ 
dreyev to the French public as a pompous mediocrity. 66 
Among the few critics who endeavored to analyze Andreyev 
sine ira, one may mention A. Redko, of Russia’s Riches, who 
reviewed every work of the author with profound impartiality; 
Professor Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky, who gave an objective esti¬ 
mate of The Life of Man ; 67 Ivanov-Razumnik, in his book 

63 Literary Disintegration, pp. 163, 176. 

&i The Russian Word (Russkoye Slovo ), a Moscow daily, for April 8, 1908. 
The optimistic part never came to light, however, remaining one of the illusions 
Andreyev carried to his grave. 

65 The Balance, January, 1908. 

e6 Mercure de France, pp. 74, 75, January, 1908. 

67 In Heat-Lightnings ( Zarnitsy ), No. 2, pp. 197-214. Petrograd, 1909. 


Early Stories 77 

on Sologub, Shestov, and Andreyev; 68 Professor M. Reisner, in 
his somewhat labored sociological study of the author; 69 and, 
with some reservations, K. Chukovsky, whose critical writings 
suffer from too much cleverness. 70 

Andreyev owed a good deal to the critical help of his first 
wife, Alexandra Mikhailovna, nee Veligorsky, whom he mar¬ 
ried in 1902. 71 According to Lvov-Rogachevsky, next to 
Maxim Gorky she exerted the strongest influence on his art: 
“She was the first to whom the young artist read his works, and 
the first to tell him words of truth, at times severe words. . . . 
Those who knew her agreed as to her fine taste, sense of pro¬ 
portion, and tact.” 72 She died on December io, 1906, in Ber¬ 
lin, where she lived with her husband most of her last year. 
During this year Andreyev completed his first symbolical play, 
The Life of Man, which appeared in the first issue of the Wild 
Rose Almanacs (Almanakhi Shipovnik) , with the inscription: 
“To the radiant memory of my friend, my wife, I dedicate this 
composition, the last on which we worked together.” In a let¬ 
ter to Lvov-Rogachevsky, written in 1908, Andreyev said: 

My late wife was an active collaborator in my work, a sensitive and 
impartial critic, who often made me change both the form and the tend¬ 
ency of my writing. My latest things, Judas Iscariot , Darkness , The 

68 About the Sense of Life, second edition. Petrograd, 1910. 

69 L. Andreyev and His Social Ideology ( L . Andreyev i evo sotsialnaya ideoU 
ogia ). Petrograd, 1909. 

70 Chukovsky’s method consists in discovering an author’s characteristic peculiar¬ 
ities, and tracing them through his works with the persistency of a Sherlock 
Holmes. From Chekhov to Our Days ( Ot Chekhova do nashikh dney). Petro¬ 
grad, 1908. Pages 129-140 deal with Andreyev, rather flippantly. A book by the 
same author, in the same year and place, Big and Little Andreyev ( Andreyev 
bolshoy i malenky), has appended a collection of abusive epithets used against 
Andreyev by various critics. 

71 Mme. Andreyev has told me that Alexandra Mikhailovna had a beneficial 
effect on her husband. Among other things, she helped him check his drinking 
propensity. 

72 Two Truths, p. 71. All those who have written about her, and those with 
whom I have spoken on the subject, agree with Lvov-Rogachevsky. Says Brus- 
yanin: “Like a beautiful, sad shadow, Andreyev’s first wife passed through his 
life . . . Gentle, fragile, with a certain quiet sadness in her eyes, she seemed to 
be aware of the short time she was to live, and expressed anxious care for the 
fate of the productions of her husband, who needed friendship and encourage¬ 
ment.” — L. Andreyev, p. 35. 


78 Leonid Andreyev 

Curse of the Beast, Tsar Hunger, were written after she had gone, and, 
if this be of any significance to you, they bear the traces of the most 
depressing mood I have lived through. 73 

Andreyev was solitary by nature, yet he was not strong 
enough for solitude. Alone, he could not face reality, and was 
threatened by fits of drunkenness or by thoughts of suicide. 
He was in need of a companion who would combine the com¬ 
rade and the nurse. In Gorky’s description of Alexandra Mik¬ 
hailovna we find this happy combination: 

. Leonid Nikolayevich introduced me to his bride—a thin, frail 
young lady, with lovely, clear eyes. Modest and silent, she impressed 
me as lacking personality, but soon I became convinced that she possessed 
a wise heart. 

She quite understood the need of a motherly, watchful relation toward 
Andreyev; she perceived at once and deeply the value of his talent, and 
the tormenting vacillations of his moods. She was one of those rare 
women who while capable of being passionate mistresses do not lose the 
faculty of loving with a maternal love. This double love had equipped 
her with a fine sensitiveness, so that she could discern between the genuine 
complaints of his soul and the jangling words of a whimsical mood of the 
moment. 

. . . She lived in constant anxiety about him, in an incessant strain 
of all her powers, completely sacrificing her personality to the interests 
of her husband. 74 

To complete the portrait of Andreyev’s first wife, it is worth 
while to quote V. Veresayev, a veteran member of the “Wednes¬ 
days.” He speaks about the wonderful congeniality of the An¬ 
dreyevs’ married life, about her jealous care for her husband’s 
comfort and proper mood, and of her “great intuitive under¬ 
standing of what her artist-husband wished to do and could do, 
in which respect she was the living embodiment of his artistic 
conscience.” 75 Veresayev states from the words of Andreyev 
that he wrote his Red Laugh three times before his wife ap¬ 
proved of it. Veresayev emphasizes this exclusive power of 

73 Two Truths, p. 72. 

74 A Book on Andreyev, p. 26. 

76 In Morning Breezes ( Utrenniki )—I, p. 82. Petrograd, 1922. 


Early Stories 79 

Alexandra Mikhailovna over her husband, adding that at the 
“Wednesdays” Andreyev eagerly listened to criticism, but 
“out of a hundred suggestions he accepted perhaps one or 
two.” 76 

The loss of his wife cast Andreyev into a mood of such de¬ 
pression that his friends feared lest he should take his life. 77 
He survived his sorrow by completely saturating himself with 

76 Ibid., p. 83. Veresayev’s version sheds a curious light on Andreyev’s methods 
and moods. He writes: “Andreyev worked at night. She never went to bed 
before he finished and read to her all he had written. After her death Leonid 
Nikolayevich told me with tears in his eyes how he composed the Red Laugh. He 
finished the story, and read it to his wife. She lowered her head, and said with 
an effort: ‘No, it is not right!’ He began to write the story all over. A few 
days later he finished it. It was late in the night. Alexandra Mikhailovna was 
then in the period of pregnancy. She was weary, and fell asleep on a couch in 
the room adjacent to the study, after making her husband promise that he would 
wake her up. He did so, and read to her the story. She burst into tears, and 
said: ‘Leonichka, it is still not right!’ He grew angry, and began to argue that 
she was a silly and did not understand anything. She cried, and kept on insisting 
that it was not right yet. He quarrelled with her, but ... he sat down to write 
it for the third time. And only when she heard the story in its third version did 
Alexandra Mikhailovna brighten in face and say joyously: ‘Now it is right!’ 
And he felt that now, indeed, it was right” (p. 82). 

I have written to Mme. Anna Andreyev about Veresayev’s story, and asked for 
her opinion. In a recent letter to me she speaks of Veresayev’s version with 
considerable reserve. “It is hardly possible to associate ‘rewriting’ with Leonid 
Nikolayevich’s work; at any rate, such cases were exceptional. ... I might repro¬ 
duce in minutest detail the mode of his compositions, beginning with The Seven 
That Were Hanged, and I cannot recall a single instance when his work was not 
purely intuitive. Do you remember what he wrote himself in his Diary?” (see 
infra, pp. 118, 119. 

One may suggest that the composition of the Red Laugh belonged to those “ex¬ 
ceptional cases” of which Mme. Andreyev reluctantly admits; indeed, this story of 
horrors bears the stamp of laboriousness. My correspondent questions Veresayev’s 
story from still another point: “Alexandra Mikhailovna was a good wife and 
friend, she loved him, and therefore could not express her general disapproval for 
his work, because she must have known or felt that such a disapproval might hurt 
his work. Adverse criticism could be useful for such an artist as Andreyev only 
when it was accompanied by definite reasons; on the whole, it was a delicate 
point. . . .” 

At all events, it is clear that Andreyev sought in his wife a sensitive and recep¬ 
tive audience, by whose opinion and judgment he tested his work. It is curious 
to note that while he read his compositions to his first wife, he had his second 
wife read them to him, anxiously watching her every intonation. Mme. Andreyev 
is a fine reader, yet she tells me of the nervous agitation that gripped her every 
time she had to read aloud a new work by her husband, especially if it was a play. 
For she knew how sensitive he was to her reaction, how easily he might grow 
diffident as to the intrinsic reality of his composition should she fail to grasp the 
tonal shades of the characters. 

77 Gorky, in A Book on Andreyev, pp. 29 ff. 


80 Leonid Andreyev 

it, in accordance with his general view on living and thinking. 78 
The period of depression was followed by a period of feverish 
literary activity, which was stamped by his melancholy state 
of mind, “bearing the traces of his mood,” as he stated in his 
letter to Lvov-Rogachevsky, quoted on pp. 77 — 7 $- Indeed, when 
one compares The Life of Man with most of Andreyev s imme¬ 
diately succeeding writings, one feels how the gloom thickened 
in the mind of the artist, how pain and despair extinguished 
the faint ray of light which still glimmered in the earlier work. 
The Life of Man, pessimistic though it is, still contains scenes 
imbued with the joy of life; the affectionate scenes between Man 
and his Wife have probably an autobiographic tincture.. In 
the end Man dies with a proudly uplifted head, almost victo¬ 
rious over senseless Chance. 79 This faint ray does not recur till 
much later, and then as a rare dissonance—in The Seven That 
Were Hanged, for instance. Andreyev’s normal key becomes 
invariably minor, his color unrelieved black. His reputation as 
that of the “apostle of gloom” is established. 

79 In ^i9o8 P Andreyev published a new version of the last scene, “Death of Man.” 
Man no longer towers with his lionine gray head, as in the first version, but lies 
flat in a conventional bed. 


IV 


MATURITY AND SOLITUDE 

Singular success of The Seven, etc.—Life in Finland.—Expanse and free¬ 
dom.—Hobbies.—Andreyev’s second wife.—Tolstoy and An¬ 
dreyev.—Tolstoy’s letter.—Andreyev in Yasnaya Polyana.— 
The points of criticism in Tolstoy’s letter applied to An¬ 
dreyev.—The style is the man.—Andreyev’s subjectivity.— 
Flaubert vs. Moderns.—Andreyev’s strength and weakness.—His 
realistic method.—His ability to express the individuality of 
things and the inexpressible.—His employment of symbols. 
Stimmungssymbolik and universal symbols.—Lack of unity 
in his symbolic plays.—Intermixture of realism, symbolism, 
and allegory.—Obscurity.—Hurried writing.—Surplusage.—In¬ 
spirational intuition.—His work more a deliverance than a 
joy.—Intuition vs. normality and reason.—Pan-psychism in his 
later works.—Andreyev on form.—Merezhkovsky’s judgment.— 
Andreyev’s growing isolation.—His attachment for the Moscow 
Art Theatre.—Reserved reciprocity.—Andreyev’s “cruel reputa¬ 
tion.”—Andreyev and Blok.—Andreyev’s “substance” curtly de¬ 
fined.—Pleading with Nemirovich-Danchenko for the need of 
tragedy.—Andreyev’s unborn works. 

Only once did Andreyev regain the unanimous acclamation of 
1901—with his story of The Seven That Were Hanged , pub¬ 
lished in 1908, and republished numerous times by various 
houses for several years in succession. It was praised by all, 
even by Merezhkovsky, 1 as a masterpiece both in technique and 
in emotional power. But Andreyev was apparently tired of 
men and their affairs. 2 During the same year he retired to Fin- 

1 In his In a Still Slough, Works — XII, pp. 232-242. 

2 A. Izmailov, describing the first reading of The Seven That Were Hanged, 
at the St. Petersburg residence of the author, observed that Andreyev was weary 
of people and the city. Soon after that reading Andreyev moved to Finland. Of 
his St. Petersburg apartment Izmailov gave a few interesting details: “He lived 
then on the Kamenny-Ostrov Prospect, in a large, magnificent building of modern 

81 


82 Leonid Andreyev 

land, where he lived in seclusion and in communion with nature. 
In a letter to Lvov-Rogachevsky, written at that time, he spoke 
somewhat lyrically about his moods and sentiments: 

This spring I am going to settle in Finland definitely, for summer as 
well as for winter. My purpose is: to come close to nature, which I love 
boundlessly, and to find more suitable conditions for my work than the 
city can offer. A few words about nature. Behold the first and only 
book which I have read through, and which I can always read without 
boredom! The full significance of nature for me, I cannot define as yet. 
Balancing myself on the tightly stretched rope, which is my life and my 
work, I should have broken my neck a score of times, were it not for 
nature. Nature and nature alone brings me back to the lost equilib¬ 
rium. Nature serves me as an inexhaustible source of joy, of spiritual 
health. Nature, too, gives me a vague but firm assurance that some day 
I shall succeed in discovering the first cause of life the strength-giver, 
and in understanding why life is after all, joy, and not sorrow . 3 

In the Finnish village Vammelsu, near the Black Rivulet, An¬ 
dreyev built for himself a villa, the fulfillment of the dream of 
Man . 4 Korney Chukovsky describes this villa as an expression 
of the author’s love for the colossal. “The fireplace in his 
study was as large as a gate, and the study itself like a public 
square. His house loomed above all other buildings in the 
village; each beam was gigantic; the foundation was a mass of 
Cyclopean granite piles.” 5 Mme. Andreyev recalls how her 
husband exasperated the architect by insisting on enormous 
plate-glass windows, which were out of keeping with the other¬ 
wise Northern style of the building. Andreyev’s plan was 
probably more in harmony with the Norway house pictured by 
Man, when he was day-dreaming with his beloved wife: 

architecture. ... It was somewhat gloomy in his enormous study, with its leather 
furniture in ‘‘modern style,” and the dreary painting by Roerich, presenting in dry 
and severe colors a group of seven ravens perched on a hill [Izmailov probably 
refers to the painting known as “The Ominous”— Zlovyeshcheye ] ... Of portraits 
there hung only those of Gorky and Shalyapin. On the bookstand could be seen 
a single photograph, the autographed portrait of Baroness von Suttner, which he 
received after the publication of his Red Laugh”—Literary Olympus, p. 284. 

3 Two Truths, pp. 20-21. 

4 Life of Man, Act II. 

5 A Book on Andreyev t p. 45. 


83 


Maturity and Solitude 

wife: How cold it is there, and how the wind blows! 

man: Ah, but I shall have thick walls, and there will be huge win¬ 
dows of one large pane, and on winter nights, when the blizzard rages 
and the fiord is roaring below, we shall draw the curtains and kindle a 
fire in the huge fireplace. There will be great andirons, on which will 
burn whole logs—whole forests of pitchy pines . 6 

In this “castle” of his Andreyev spent nearly all of the last 
ten years of his life. Within a few hours’ ride from Petrograd, 
he was nevertheless cut off from the hubbub of the capital. 
The quiet village inhabited by rough taciturn Finns afforded An¬ 
dreyev the freedom and expanse he had craved for since his 
boyhood in the town of Orel. Here he could give full sway to 
his whims and hobbies. Now he would engage in painting, 
to the exclusion of everything else; now he abandoned himself 
to experiments in photography, particularly to color photog¬ 
raphy, obtaining at times astonishing results ; 7 now he would 
plunge headlong into writing, consumed by the creative impulse, 
deaf and blind to all other issues and interests, impersonating 
each one of his characters with the sincere abandon and spon¬ 
taneity of a child playing at make-believe. The painter Repin 
compared Andreyev to Duke Lorenzo, the main character in 
The Black Maskers, and Chukovsky found that the writer 
played that last role more naturally than his numerous other 
parts. “It suited him,” he wrote, “to be a magnate; in every 
gesture he was a grandee. His fine, chiseled, decorative face, 

e The Life of Man, Act II. 

7 Some of the colored landscapes he photographed belie the medium of their re¬ 
production : so artistic do they appear in composition and tone effect. I also had 
the good fortune to look over a large collection of photographs taken with a stereo¬ 
scopic camera by Andreyev and by those about him. These glass rectangulars 
showed me the author in various moods and situations, often caught unawares by 
the camera—at his desk in the study, at the helm of his small yacht, in the Finnish 
harbor, dressed in a spruce naval uniform, on the seashore—sometimes without 
any dress on—in the family circle, or with friends. I have carried out a vivid 
impression of the writer’s appearance, as that of a person of middle height, a bit 
stocky but agile, with a marvelous head, which Repin wanted to replicate on can¬ 
vas in John the Baptist. Most memorable are Andreyev’s eyes: dark, they glow 
with an intense light, both penetrating and introverted, always grave. Because 
of these eyes Andreyev’s face does not lose its earnest, almost stern expression in 
any of his pictures, except two: one, with his favorite child, Savva, where his face 
is transformed by a joyous paternal smile, and one other, after his death, with the 
black torches extinguished, and a great calm lending the face a wise gentleness. 


84 Leonid Andreyev 

his graceful, somewhat full figure, his aristocratic light gait— 
all this harmonized splendidly with the role of the magnificent 
duke, which he played so superbly in his last years.” 8 His 
restlessness found an outlet in the sea which was close to his 
village. From early spring till late autumn he cruised in his 
yacht through the treacherous skerries off the coast of Finland, 
returning home weathered and bronzed, refreshed and invig¬ 
orated. His love for the sea and understanding of it appear 
with particular impressiveness in The Ocean, the tragedy per¬ 
meated with the tingling saltiness of sea air. According to 
Mme. Andreyev, her husband’s moods depended on the direc¬ 
tion of the sea winds: He felt elated when the west wind blew, 
while the north wind filled him with depressing thoughts of 
death. His sense of smell was one of his best developed senses, 
and he enjoyed everything which smelled of the sea; for hours 
he would loiter with his little Savva in the harbor, inhaling the 
various odors, and enlarging on their significances. One of his 
cherished possessions was a piece of tarred rope which his wife 
jestingly presented to him as a bouquet, and which always hung 
by his bed. His nostalgia for the sea Andreyev considered one 
of his organic characteristics. He said to a newspaper cor¬ 
respondent : 

I have loved the sea for a long time, since my childhood, from books. 
And I have been awaiting it. And never have I experienced such joy as 
at the moment when for the first time I stepped on a deck swaying under 
my feet. I felt the fulfillment of that which was to be fulfilled. 9 

The last ten years of his life Andreyev spent in close union 
and comradeship with his second wife, Anna Ilyinishna Denisev- 
ich, whom he married in April, 1908, while composing his mas¬ 
terpiece, The Seven That Were Hanged. Relatively little has 
been written about this period, and almost nothing about Mme. 

6 A Book on Andreyev, pp. 45-46. 

9 An interview in the weekly, Russia’s Morning (Utro Rossii), September 8, 
1913. Mme. Andreyev tells me that on his first arrival at Petrograd, he immedi¬ 
ately boarded a steamer for the port of Kronstat. Andreyev’s nostalgia for the 
sea reminds one of the same urge in Joseph Conrad, who was also born in an 
inland country. 


Maturity and Solitude 85 

Andreyev. 10 The reason for this is suggested in the following 
lines written to me by her in February, 1922: 

Strange as it may perhaps seem, during the ten years of his life with 
me he drifted apart from his former chums and colleagues. He con¬ 
tinued to love them tenderly, but as one loves one’s childhood playmates, 
or one’s old couch. . . . 

By the time of his second marriage Andreyev had become 
tired of his fellow men, and keenly aware of his solitude among 
contemporary writers. In his wife, Anna, he found the friend¬ 
ship which gives unreservedly, asking in return nothing but the 
joy of being able to give more. “My ears,” he called her in a 
letter to his brother, Andrey. He needed her sympathetic ears, 
her fine response, her delicate sensitiveness, her unflagging alert¬ 
ness, and her constant, watchful presence, in order to overcome 
the depression of his black solitude, and to be in a position to 
create. With the selfishness of a genius or of a child (he pos¬ 
sessed the elements of both) he monopolized all her time, 11 all 
her attention and interest, all her strength and energy. 12 Dur¬ 
ing his creative periods he would dictate his productions to her 
all night long, striding up and down his huge study, smoking in¬ 
cessantly, consuming quantities of strong tea from the always 

10 In Vengerov’s work {op. cit., p. 250) I find one line: “Later Leonid Nikolay¬ 
evich married the daughter of A. I. Denisevich, an Odessa journalist.” Denisev- 
ich was neither A. I., nor an Odessa journalist, but I. N. and a social worker in 
St. Petersburg. At his home met prominent politicians and revolutionary leaders, 
and it was in that atmosphere that Andreyev conceived the type of Werner, in 
The Seven That Were Hanged. In the various reminiscences written about An¬ 
dreyev after hi9 death I find only one reference to his second wife, in those of 
Skitalets (Petrov), He speaks of the secluded life of the Andreyevs in their “en¬ 
chanted castle, where, according to rumor, they never received any guests and 
gave no parties, but were engaged all year round in writing gloomy fantasies.” 
Despite the rumor, Skitalets was invited by Andreyev to his villa where he met 
the hostess, “a beautiful young woman of a pronounced southern type” who im¬ 
pressed him “as a serious, clever, balanced person.”—In the Harbin daily, Russia's 
Voice (Golos Rossii ), February 21, 1922. 

11 For a long time she was unable to attend to her teeth, because whenever she 
set out for Petrograd, Andreyev would exclaim: “But how shall I get along with¬ 
out you!” 

12 Persons who have known the Andreyevs, like the writer, Mme. A. Damansky, 
told me that a few years after their marriage it was difficult to recognize in the 
physically worn Mme. Andreyev the erstwhile “striking beauty” of the popular 
Mile. Denisevich. 


86 Leonid Andreyev 

active samovar, and utterly oblivious of the fatigue and exhaus¬ 
tion of “his ears.” Yet though indifferent to her physical wea¬ 
riness, he was exceedingly sensitive about her inner reaction to 
his dictations, and would stop in the middle of a passage on 
becoming suspicious concerning the sympathy of his audience. 13 
The importance of Mme. Andreyev in the life of her husband 
can be appreciated after reading the following lines from his 
diary, written shortly before his death: 

My relations with Anna are a theme of such enormous importance 
and value, that it is with difficulty that I decide to approach it. It is 
as though I conceived a desire to define all my attitudes toward life; it 
is like the request of a certain lady reader to explain in a few words the 
meaning of my works. I am not writing about my relations with Anna 
because, in the first place, I generally do not write about the most im¬ 
portant things, and in the second place, because I speak about these things 
to Anna, and speak unreservedly, without the need for transferring any¬ 
thing into secret documents. Isolated, brief entries merely serve as the 
thermometer of a given day. The weather, compared with nature it¬ 
self. 

She [Anna] forms an inseparable, essential part of my soul. She is 
my best and only friend, with whom I always find it interesting and im¬ 
portant to share my ideas, whether it be about life, or about my works 
and plans. My first desire on seeing something, is to tell Anna about it: 
only after passing through Anna does everything seen, experienced, and 
contemplated by me become a fact of my soul. Without that—all is but 
a dream and oblivion. 

The year of Andreyev’s second marriage coincided with what 
he later regarded as the climactic development of his talent, 
the “attainment of the peak,” in his words written in a letter to 
Goloushev (in 1918). “In 1906,” he recorded in that letter, 
“I wrote Lazarus, The Lite of Man, Sawa. In 1907, Judas 
and Darkness , while in 1908 alone, The Seven That Were 
Hanged, Days of Our Life, My Memoirs, Black Maskers r and 

13 Needless to say, Andreyev was able to create in this fashion because his wife 
enjoyed his tyranny not as the bearing of a cross, but as a great happiness, in¬ 
finitely proud of her lot, and responding to the beats of his talent’s wings with 
all the fibres of her soul. 


Maturity and Solitude 87 

Anathema. In general, 1908 was a wonderful year in vital 
activity: I married Anna, built my home, lived through memor¬ 
able experiences, and wrote so many of my best works.” Each 
one of the writings enumerated was a literary event of national 
dimensions, generating heated discussions in the press and at 
various gatherings, and endowing Andreyev with a renown 
which had the element of scandal about it. With the exception 
of Days of Our Life, the understandable realistic play based on 
student life, which enjoyed a continuous popularity throughout 
Russia, all these productions assaulted some established fetich, 
and thereby provoked the resentment and protest of the of¬ 
fended worshippers. At any rate, Andreyev became the most- 
talked-of author in Russia, whose plays were produced at the 
best theatres of Petrograd, Moscow, Kiev, Odessa, and other 
big cities, and whose works were eagerly commented upon in 
lectures and articles. 

At the height of his fame Andreyev paid a visit to Yasnaya 
Polyana. Thinking Russians found themselves impelled at one 
time or another to come into the presence of the great man, to 
draw strength and consolation from the “conscience of Russia,” 
as Tolstoy has been called by his countrymen. Writers, among 
other pilgrims, were attracted to the author of Russia’s Iliad 
and Odyssey, to the artist whom Turgenev addressed from his 
deathbed with the words, “Great writer of the Russian land.” 
This in spite of Tolstoy’s renunciation of his art, his condemna¬ 
tion of his own best novels and stories as well as of all famous 
artistic productions created by the few for the few. The artist 
and keen critic never died in Tolstoy. The works he produced 
after 1880, the year when he definitely embraced his new faith, 
including his last novel, Resurrection, and his posthumous plays 
and stories, amply testify to the failure of Tolstoy the preacher 
in his effort to destroy Tolstoy the artist. In reading his let¬ 
ters, diaries, and his remarks recorded by his friends and con¬ 
temporaries, one learns how vitally interested he was to the end 
in questions of literature, how pointed were his critical observa¬ 
tions, how keen his likes and dislikes. 

Tolstoy regarded Andreyev’s talent skeptically. I have al- 


88 Leonid Andreyev 

ready noted the saying attributed to him: “Andreyev says, 
Boo! But I am not scared.” Upon hearing of the plot of 
Darkness, Tolstoy praised the idea of the story, but after read¬ 
ing it he was disappointed. “They praise him,” he said, “so 
he permits himself to write God knows what. Absolute lack of 
the sense of measure—the main thing in any art, whether poetry 
or music or sculpture. As soon as the artist overdoes, I become 
at once aware of it. Ah! he wants to catch me!—and I keep 
myself on guard against him.” 14 On another occasion he also 
suggested that “the chief trouble with Andreyev is that he has 
been so profusely glorified that now he strains himself to write 
extraordinary things.” 15 In this respect Tolstoy agreed with 
Merezhkovsky, who compared the effect of the public on An¬ 
dreyev to the deathly hug of a gorilla on an infant. 16 Tsar 
Hunger impressed Tolstoy as “an accumulation of horrors and 
effects.” 17 He expressed amazement at the success of Andre¬ 
yev, who was less talented than Kuprin, Serafimovich, Artsibas¬ 
hev. 18 Of The Life of Man he said: “It is naive, affected 
pessimism, when life does not run according to your wish. . . . 
I receive many such letters, particularly from ladies. It has 
neither new ideas nor artistic images.” 19 Still more sweep- 
ingly did he state his opinion one evening during a discussion of 
modern literature: “I cannot read Andreyev. I read one 
page and feel bored. I see that it is false. The same as in 
music: when the player strikes a false note after every three 
notes, I am unable to listen, I go out, or stop my ears.” 20 He 
failed to see any meaning in Andreyev’s symbols and allegories. 

^ Two Years with Tolstoy ( D<va goda s Tolstym ), notes by his secretary, N. N. 
Gusev (Moscow, 1912), p. 77, entry for February 6, 1908. Gusev, and his succes¬ 
sor, V. F. Bulgakov, enjoyed the confidence of Tolstoy and of his intimate as¬ 
sociates. At present they are both connected with the Tolstoy Museum, and with 
its various publications. 

15 Ibid., p. 98, March 8, 1908. 

16 In the Paws of an Ape (V ohezyannykh lapakh ), Russian Thought, January, 
1908. One should remember that if Andreyev was at all influenced by the public, 
the effect of its praise was neutralized by that of its abuse. 

17 Two Years, etc., p. 104, March 18, 1908. 

18 Ibid., p. 105, March 22, 1908. 

19 Ibid., p. 132, May 8, 1908. 

20 Ibid., p. 139, May 19, 1908. 


Maturity and Solitude 89 

“I have read the prologue to Andreyev’s Anathema ” he said. 
“It is insane, perfectly insane ! Absolute nonsense! A certain 
Guardian, certain gates. ... It is astonishing how the public 
likes this incomprehensibility. Nay, it demands such stuff, and 
searches for some special significance in it.” 21 

As a victim of Tolstoy’s merciless criticism Andreyev found 
himself in a rather prominent company. In his What Is Art? 
and in his later articles Tolstoy wrought havoc in the ranks of 
the world’s great, slaughtering Shakespeare and Wagner, Bee¬ 
thoven and Nietzsche, and with especial vehemence the mod¬ 
erns. In literature Tolstoy abhorred obscurity and finicalness, 
mysticism and symbolism, art for the sake of art, and beauty 
for the sake of beauty. He demanded of a work of art that it 
should be reasonable, clear and accessible to the common reader, 
and that it should contain an uplifting message. It was natural 
that he should disapprove of Andreyev, both for his symbolic 
style and for his purely negative tendency in destroying all be¬ 
liefs and moral values. 22 Andreyev dedicated his Seven That 
Were Hanged to Tolstoy, evidently feeling that this work of 
his would meet with the approval of the valiant fighter against 
capital punishment. Along with the dedication he must have 
sent a letter, for we find this mentioned in a letter from Tol¬ 
stoy, dated “Yasnaya Polyana, September, 1908.” Tolstoy’s 
letter is worth translating, as presenting not only his last expres¬ 
sion of the writer’s catechism, but also his veiled references to 
what he considered weaknesses in Andreyev, notably, the lat¬ 
ter’s affected outlandishness, excessive speed in composition, and 
alleged playing to the gallery. 

I have received your good letter, my dear Leonid Nikolayevich. I have 
never known the meaning of dedications, though methinks I have myself 

21 V. F. Bulgakov, With L. N. Tolstoy, in the last year of his life (U L. N. Tols- 
tovo <v posledny god evo zhizni ), p. 184, entry for May 26, 1910. Moscow, 1911. 

22 According to Mme. Andreyev, Tolstoy expressed his unreserved approval of 
Andreyev’s Christians. In this satirical sketch of a court room, a prostitute re¬ 
fuses to take the oath as a witness, arguing that her profession precludes her 
adherence to the Christian faith, while the judges and the prosecutor endeavor 
in vain to persuade her that one may remain a Christian even when engaging in 
fraud, thievery or murder. 


90 Leonid Andreyev 

done some dedicating to some one. I only know that your dedication 
signifies your good feelings toward me, which I have noted also in your 
letter to me, and this pleases me greatly. In your letter you judge your 
writings with such sincere modesty, that I shall allow myself to express 
my opinion, not about your own writings, but about writing in general 
ideas which may perhaps be of use to you too. I think, in the first place, 
that one should write only when the thought he wants to express is so 
persistent that it will not leave him in peace until he has expressed it as 
well as he can. All other inducements to write, vainglorious ones, par¬ 
ticularly those of the hideous pecuniary kind, though allied with the chief 
prompting—the need of expression, can only interfere with the sincerity 
and dignity of writing. One should be on constant guard against this. 
In the second place, there is often the desire to be peculiar, original, to 
astonish and surprise the reader; of this our contemporary writers in par¬ 
ticular are often guilty (the whole Decadent movement is based on this 
desire). This trait is even more pernicious than those side considerations 
of which I spoke first. It excludes simplicity, and simplicity is the neces¬ 
sary condition of the beautiful. The simple and artless may be poor, but 
that which is not simple and is artificial can never be good. Thirdly: 
hurried writing. This is both harmful and a sign that the writer has no 
genuine need for expressing his thought. For if there be such a genuine 
need, then the writer will spare no labor or time in order to bring his 
thought to full definiteness, clearness. Fourthly: the desire to respond 
to the tastes and demands of the major part of the contemporary reading 
public. This is particularly harmful, and it ruins in advance all the 
significance of what the author intends to write. For the significance of 
any literary product consists not in its being instructive in the direct 
sense, like a sermon, but in its revealing to men something new, unknown 
to them, and for the most part contradictory to that which the large 
public considers indubitable. And it is precisely this [significance] that 
is necessarily excluded here [in the fourth case]. 

Perhaps something out of all this may be of use to you. You write 
that the merit of your works lies in their sincerity. I admit not only 
this, but also that their aim, too, is good: the desire to contribute to men’s 
well-being. I think that you are sincere also in modestly judging your 
productions. This is the more worthy on your part, since the success 
which they enjoy might have prompted you, on the contrary, to exagger¬ 
ate their importance. I have read too little of you, and too carelessly, 
as I read little in general, and am only slightly interested in belles-lettres 
[literally: artistic productions—“khudozhestvennyia proizvedeniya”] ; but 


91 


Maturity and Solitude 

from what I remember and know of your writings, I should advise you 
to work longer over them, bringing their underlying ideas to the last 
degree of precision and clearness. 

I repeat that your letter has pleased me very much. If you happen to 
be in our vicinity, I shall be glad to see you. 

Lovingly, 

Leo Tolstoy. 23 

Andreyev did visit Yasnaya Polyana, in the last year of Tol¬ 
stoy’s life. Bulgakov records this event in his diary, 4-5 May, 
1910. In his description Andreyev appears as somewhat af¬ 
fected, as a poseur—the usual impression of those who saw him 
for the first time. The first things Bulgakov noticed were “his 
handsome swarthy face, a little restless, his white hat, fashion¬ 
able cape.” While being introduced to the count’s family, An¬ 
dreyev’s “hands trembled.” He was very “timid and mild, and 
agreed in everything with his hosts.” Andreyev was on the 
way to his Finland villa from a trip south, on which he saw 
Gorky at his Capri home. He told them of his infatuation 
with painting and with color photography. Unfortunately, the 
most interesting part of his visit, the conversation of the two 
writers during an afternoon stroll in rain and hail, was not re¬ 
corded. In the evening, Bulgakov observed: 

Andreyev sat with the ladies in the drawing-room. He wore a cream- 
colored knitted jacket which went very well with his dark complexion 
and pitch-black locks, and with his full figure; he was, apparently, per¬ 
fectly conscious of the effect. “May I? At home I always wear this,” 
he innocently inquired. We spoke of his works. Personally he liked 
most of all Lazarus and The Life of Man, was “beginning” to like Judas 
Iscariot. Concerning the stories The Abyss and In Fog [which the 
countess had attacked in 1903: supra, p. 71], Leonid Nikolayevich de¬ 
clared that “such” stories he no longer wrote. He told us that at the 
beginning of his literary career he “studied the styles” of various writ¬ 
ers—of Chekhov, Garshin, Tolstoy, analyzing their writings syntactically, 
and trying to write a la Chekhov, a la Garshin, a la Tolstoy. He suc¬ 
ceeded in all cases except that of Tolstoy. . . . 

23 Letters of L. N. Tolstoy (Pisma L. N. Tolsto<vo) f 1848-1910, No. 269, pp. 334- 
336. Moscow, 1910, 


92 Leonid Andreyev 

Lev Nikolayevich came in. He offered Andreyev a chance to write 
for the one-copeck publications of The Mediator [Posrednik: a popular 
publishing house, in which Tolstoy took great interest]. But Andreyev 
declared that he could not do it, to his regret, because he “had done like 
Chekhov”: he had sold to a certain concern not only his past but also 
his future works. At tea he talked to Lev Nikolayevich about the critic, 

K. Chukovsky, who had raised the question of a special dramatic litera¬ 
ture for the cinematograph. Andreyev was very enthusiastic about this. 
Lev Nikolayevich listened at first skeptically, but later he apparently be¬ 
came interested. “I shall most certainly write for the cinematograph!” 
he announced at the end of the conversation. 24 

Bulgakov is one of those faithful worshippers who involunta¬ 
rily belittle those who appear within the radius of their sun. 
Hence his somewhat patronizing tone about Tolstoy’s visitors. 
That night, when alone with his master, he spoke rather doubt¬ 
fully of the young author who was so popular and apt to be 
complacent. But Tolstoy retorted that from their conversa¬ 
tion on that afternoon he knew that Andreyev was “thinking of 
moral questions”; and that Andreyev had produced on him 
“a good impression. Clever, such kind thoughts, a very fine 
person. But I feel,” he added, “that I must tell him straight¬ 
forward the whole truth: he writes too much.” 25 It is interest¬ 
ing to learn that Tolstoy who was keener and deeper than any 
of his satellites, who was very sensitive and abhorred sham and 
affectation, found Andreyev agreeable. On the other hand, the 
younger writer, who had expressed on previous occasions his 
opposition to Tolstoy’s views, and whose My Memoirs (1908) 
was regarded as a caricature of the Yasnaya Polyana hermit, 
was deeply moved by his contact with the great man. There 
is a touching significance in the parting of these two outstanding 
figures of Russian life and letters, as recorded by Bulgakov: 

In the doorway leading from the study into the drawing-room, Lev 
Nikolayevich met Andreyev. The latter thanked L. N. with emotion. 

L. N. asked him to come again. “Let us be more intimate,” he said, and 
added: “Permit me to embrace you.” 

24 With L. N. Tolstoy, pp. 143-144. 

25 Ibid., p. 144. 


93 


Maturity and Solitude 

And he was the first to extend a kiss to his young colleague. . . . 

When Andreyev and I went out, I observed how deeply he was agitated 
by the leave-taking. 

“Tell Lev Nikolayevich,” he spoke in a halting voice, as we were de¬ 
scending the stairs, turning his excited face to me and scarcely seeing the 
steps, “tell him that I . . . feel happy, that he is ... so kind.” 26 

Gulliver's Death f written in 1911, was Andreyev’s last trib¬ 
ute to the memory of his great compatriot and fellow writer. 27 
The bereaved author described the Lilliputians clambering over 
the dead body, and making vain efforts to estimate the only 
giant that ever appeared in their puny midst. In the concluding 
paragraph he expressed what practically all Russians have felt 
toward Tolstoy, adherents and opponents alike: 

From the world has forever departed the great human heart which had 
hovered over the land and filled the days and dark nights of the Lillipu¬ 
tians with its resounding beats. Heretofore, whenever a Lilliputian awak¬ 
ened in the midst of the night from a terrible dream, he would hear the 
habitually even beats of the mighty heart, and, reassured, he would again 
fall asleep. Like some faithful guard, the noble heart watched over him, 
and sounding its ringing beats, it sent down to the earth good will and 
peace, and dispersed the terrible dreams with which the dark Lilliputian 
nights are so replete. 

And the great human heart has forever departed from the world. And 
stillness reigned. . . . 28 

Tolstoy’s letter to Andreyev voiced the writer’s literary ten- 

26 It is worth while to quote a few more lines from Bulgakov, the jealous dis¬ 
ciple who is loth to praise an outsider, and who, unlike his master, judges from 
the exterior: “Andreyev produced a favorable impression on everybody at Yas- 
naya Polyana. All the time he held himself with extreme modesty, even timidity. 
About Lev Nikolayevich he spoke with reverence. His speech is simple, at times 
somewhat coarse, in contrast to the easily understood yet beautiful and grace¬ 
fully precise language of Lev Nikolayevich. He was posing a bit, it seemed to 
me. Even his costume was, as they say, ‘simple but elegant’—a picturesque cape, 
a black Windsor tie in his shirt, then his effective jacket. He probably thinks that 
his handsome exterior is in need of all these accessories.”— Ibid., p. 146. 

27 Somewhat earlier Andreyev wrote an obituary note, under the title, Half A 
Year Before His Death, in which he emphasized the impression of gentleness and 
goodness produced on him by “the blessed ancient.”— Works — VI (Marx edition, 
Petrograd, 1913), pp. 302-304. 

28 Works — XII, p. 239. 


94 Leonid Andreyev 

ets, and, by implication, his chief misgivings concerning Andre¬ 
yev’s talent. By applying to Andreyev the four points set forth 
in the letter, we shall throw light on the essential traits of his 
artistic personality. The last point—as to the conformity of 
the author with the prevalent public taste—may be dismissed in 
a sentence. From what we have already observed (see, e. g., 
supra, pp. 51, 74-76), and from our further discussion, it must 
appear clear that Andreyev was decidedly nonconformist in his 
views, a consistent enfant terrible in his relations with the public. 
In regard to the first point—the nature of the author’s impulse 
for writing—Andreyev (except for a few attempts in his last 
year, of which we shall speak later) complied with Tolstoy’s de¬ 
mand that one should write only when prompted by an irresist¬ 
ible urge for self-expression. Chukovsky tells us how Andreyev 
would give himself up to writing “with an intensity that was ex¬ 
hausting,” oblivious of every one and everything. 29 Also 
Gorky describes Andreyev during a period of devastating activ¬ 
ity at Capri, when he abandoned himself to writing, sitting at 
his desk day and night, “half dressed, dishevelled, but happy,” 
consumed by the fire of his imagination. 30 More serious are 
the charges against Andreyev, implied in the second point— 
anent lack of simplicity—and in the third—concerning hasty 
composition. Indeed, Tolstoy rounds up his “general” pre¬ 
cepts by a direct, personal counsel to Andreyev to “work 
longer” over his writings for the sake of “precision and clear¬ 
ness.” These points are connected with the author’s mode and 
methods of writing—that is, with the way he perceived, felt, 
digested, and reflected the experiences which formed his artis¬ 
tic world—in a word, with Andreyev’s personality; and they 
must be considered at some length. 

Andreyev did frequently display a lack of simplicity, and oc¬ 
casionally he was, indeed, guilty of hasty composition. But 
his former sin was not due to a desire “to be peculiar, original, 
to astonish and surprise the reader,” just as his latter fault did 
not betray a want of a “genuine need for expressing his 

29 A Book on Andreyev, p. 48. 

80 Ibid., p. 32. 


95 


Maturity and Solitude 

thought.” Andreyev’s stylistic peculiarities and flaws reflected 
the traits of his character, amply illustrating the truth of the old 
but not antiquated definition of style as “the man himself.” 
The variety of methods, and the multiplicity of forms he em¬ 
ployed, the exaggerations, superfluities, and obscurities of which 
he was guilty—these and other traits composed his style, his in¬ 
tense, seething, contradictory, unpoised personality. 

One of his conspicuous features was subjectivity, a feature 
whose merit or demerit for the artist is still debated by the ad¬ 
herents of Flaubert’s view that the duty of art is to be imper¬ 
sonal , 31 on one hand, and by the more numerous modern critics 
who accept the opposite view, as for instance, Remy de Gour- 
mont , 32 or Benedetto Croce . 33 After all, the difference between 
the two views is more of degree than of essence. Impersonality 
in art is well-nigh unattainable, the individuality of the author 
being of necessity felt in one place or another of his work. 
Even Madame Bovary , the highest example of detached art, 
implies a certain attitude toward life in general, an attitude 
which is unmistakably Flaubert’s. Chekhov’s objective types 
and sketches cannot help expressing indirectly the author’s sad 
outlook upon a world in which he depicts the ridiculous and the 
futile. In a work of art we welcome the presence of the creator 
hovering over it, just as the believer feels the omnipresence of 
God, if one may proceed with Flaubert’s comparison. The ques¬ 
tion is, to what extent is the author’s presence felt. As a guide 
through the soul chambers of his characters, the author must not 
be too obtrusive, nor too subjectively elusive. He must not 

81 From his letter to George Sand: . . . “dans l’ideal que j’ai de l’art, je crois 
qu’on ne doit rien montrer des siennes, et que l’artiste ne doit pas plus apparaitre 
dans son oeuvre que Dieu dans la nature. L’homme n’est rien, Pceuvre tout!”— 
Gustave Flaubert, Correspondance — IV, pp. 219-220. Paris, 1904. 

32 “L’oeuvre d’un ecrivain doit etre non seulement le reflet, mais le reflet grossi 
de sa personality. La seule excuse qu’un homme ait d’ecrire, c’est de s’ecrire 
lui-meme, de devoiler aux autres la sorte de monde qui se mire en son miroir in- 
dividuel” . . . —Remy de Gourmont, Le livre des masques — I, p. 13, Paris, 1896. 

33 “We do not ask of an artist instruction as to real facts and thoughts, nor 
that he should astonish us with the richness of his imagination but that he should 
have a personality, in contact with which the soul of the hearer or spectator 
may be heated.”—Benedetto Croce, JE$thetic f p. 389 (translated by Ainslie). 
London, 1909. 




96 Leonid Andreyev 

shout over our heads through a megaphone, forcing upon us 
labels, epithets, and points of view, nor must he hint at these 
with arbitrary obscurity; in either case he would invite uncalled- 
for intimacy. The author ought to respect his reader s intelli¬ 
gence and faculty of self-orientation, step politely aside, and per¬ 
mit him to form his own inferences and conclusions. Otherwise 
the author’s personality may become an annoying nuisance. 

Andreyev projects his personality in all his writings, with all 
its peculiarities, merits and drawbacks. His subjectivity is man¬ 
ifested otherwise than in the choice of subjects familiar to him. 
Indeed, like Flaubert, 34 he is fond of penetrating unknown re¬ 
gions, of painting strange environments, of dissecting alien na¬ 
tures. He probes the state of mind of high bureaucrats, of 
tramps, policemen, priests, revolutionists, prostitutes, mer¬ 
chants, and of numerous other categories foreign to his personal 
mode of living and thinking. Where he differs from Flaubert, 
is that he creates the unfamiliar characters not “de tete,” but 
from his heart. Flaubert tried to make the characters in Ma¬ 
dame Bovary think and talk in their own way, as he himself 
would under no circumstances think or talk. Moreover, he did 
not let us see in the least degree his personal opinion of the 
persons he created, nor surmise his preferences and choices. 
In Andreyev we often feel that the characters serve as mouth¬ 
pieces for the author. A lyrical note runs through all of his 
works, making the author’s presence felt strongly. The lepers 
in The Wall, the lonely wretch in At the Window, Judas the 
traitor, Augustus encountering Lazarus, Anathema storming 
heaven, Samson torn between flesh and spirit, these and their 
very antipodes speak the familiar Andreyev language—many- 
sided and variegated yet definitely individual. Even the dog, in 

34 In a letter to Mme. X: “Les livres que j’ambitionne le plus de faire sont 
justement ceux pour lesquels j’ai le moins de moyens. Bovary en ce sens aura 
ete un tour de force inoui et dont moi seul jamais aurai conscience: sujet, per- 
sonnage, effet, etc., tout est hors de moi ... ; je suis en ecrivant ce livre comme 
un homme qui jouerait du piano avec des balles de plomb sur chaque phalange.’* 
—Correspondance — II, p. 128. 

Later he wrote to the same lady: “Ce qui fait que je vais si lentement, c’est 
que rien dans ce livre \Madame Bovary ] n’est tire de moi, jamais ma personnalite 
ne m’aura ete plus inutile . . . : tout est de tete . . . . Juge done, il faut que j’entre 
i tout$ minute dans des peaux qui me sont antipathiques . . — Ibid., pp. 198, 199. 


Maturity and Solitude 97 

Snapper, strikes the reader as an incarnation of Andreyev. 
Again, there is never any doubt as to the author’s attitude to¬ 
ward his characters; although he does not employ the out- 
of-date “author’s comment,” we invariably know his sympa¬ 
thies and antipathies. In most cases he sympathizes, for the 
simple reason that nearly all his main characters (and his works 
usually centre in one character) are none others but Andreyev 
himself in various editions. But when he hates or despises, he 
shows his sentiment with unmistakable intensity, though not di¬ 
rectly. We feel his contempt for the father of Pavel ( In 
Fog), his animosity toward the Governor’s son ( The Gov¬ 
ernor), his mocking scorn for the twelve Apostles ( Judas Is¬ 
cariot), his bitter hatred for the old man of My Memoirs. 

Andreyev’s subjectivity is both his weakness and his strength. 
His art suffers from lack of detachment. Where the cold eye 
of a scientific investigator is required, he may fall short. The 
chapter “Kiss him and be silent,” in The Seven That Were 
Hanged, despite its tremendous appeal, ends with an admitted 
failure to describe what has taken place. Tears did not let the 
author record the final embrace between the parents and their 
son doomed to be hanged on the morrow. An artist has no 
right to shirk his responsibility of expressing in significant form 
that which we, ordinary mortals, are too tongue-tied to utter 
adequately. He is a weak artist who grows hysterical over the 
terrible and tragic in his workshop, life, who yields to monstros¬ 
ity and succumbs to chaos, according to Merezhkovsky’s accusa¬ 
tion. 35 At the same time Andreyev’s subjectivity lends his 
works a human appeal of such profound sincerity that it atones 
for the artistic weakness. His creations are, indeed, not merely 
“of the head.” In the words of Chukovsky, quoted pre¬ 
viously, 36 “he did not merely write his works; his subjects seized 
him as if with a flame. Each theme consumed him to the end; 
for a time he would become a maniac under its spell.” While 
creating a character he became saturated with its psychology, 
acted and lived like this character, with the abandon and ear- 

35 Supra, p. 54. 

36 Supra, p. 53. 


98 Leonid Andreyev 

nestness of a child playing some make-believe game. He had 
the faculty of assuming various personalities and thus actually 
experiencing the emotions, passions, sufferings of his numerous 
creations. 37 Hence the tremendous power of conviction and 
truthfulness that his works possess even when describing the 
extraordinary. A. Izmailov relates the effect of The Seven 
That Were Hanged on Novodvorsky and Morozov, two “ex¬ 
perts of death,” in the sense that both experienced in their early 
revolutionary activity the agony of awaiting execution. Re¬ 
leased after nearly a quarter of a century of solitary confine¬ 
ment in the awful casemates of the Schlusselburg fortress, the 
punishment to which their death sentence had been commuted, 
these two veterans were present at the first private reading of 
the story by Andreyev. Said Novodvorsky: 

“I am amazed how you, not having actually lived through the anguish 
of inevitable death, could become imbued with our moods to such wonder¬ 
ful verisimilitude. Astonishingly true.” 

Morozov, too, wondered at the “truthful, poignant, and pro¬ 
found” way in which Andreyev “surmised so much.” 38 Only 
an author writing with the blood of his heart can attain the al¬ 
most uncanny realism of Andreyev in reproducing some of the 
rarest and most racking human experiences. No wonder that 
upon completing his Red Laugh f “his nerves were utterly shat¬ 
tered, and for some time he was unable to work.” 39 

In order to clarify further Andreyev’s personality as seen 
through his subjective art, a few observations of his literary 
methods will be helpful. “They wonder why I write certain 
things in a peculiar style,” Andreyev is quoted as having said 
after the presentation of The Black Maskers (in 1908). “The 

37 Supra, pp. 54, 55. Flaubert, with all his admiration for impersonal 

art, regretted his inability to experience any genuine sympathy with his characters. 
Thus, while working “scientifically” and objectively over Salammho, he wrote to 
Ernest Feydeau: “Je donnerais la demi-rame de notes que j’ai ecrites depuis cinq 
mois et les 98 volumes que j’ai lus, pour etre pendant trois secondes, seulement, 
reelement emotionne par la passion de mes heros.”— Correspondance — III, pp. 
103, 104. 

® 8 Literary Olympus, pp. 289 ff. 

39 Quoted supra, p. 54, from Two Truths, p. 67. 


99 


Maturity and Solitude 

explanation is very simple: every work should be written in the 
style which it demands. Tsar Hunger could not be written 
without symbolism; The Seven That Were Hanged could be 
written only in realistic tones ... I am not a slave of either 
symbolism or realism, but they are my servants now the one 
now the other, according to my theme.” 40 Indeed, Andreyev 
consistently regarded the medium of expression as a servant, 
as an instrument for the purpose of conveying an idea, selected 
solely for its fitness, never as an aim in itself, or for the sake of 
being “original,” as Tolstoy hints. In accordance with the na¬ 
ture of their themes, Andreyev’s productions are, stylistically, 
realistic, or symbolistic, or “pan-psychic,” to use his own term. 41 

Intrinsically, all art possesses the elements of realism and 
symbolism. In order to appeal it must create an actuality, a 
persuasive reality, no matter whether reproduced from tangible 
life, or hewn from the imagination. At the same time a work 
of art cannot help being symbolical, implying a significance be¬ 
yond the limits of immediacy. Andreyev is both a realist and 
a symbolist, and his works differ only extrinsical^, in the rela¬ 
tive prominence given to visible reality or to its underlying 
meanings. In this limited sense the major part of his writings 
is composed in the spirit of the traditional Russian realism. 42 
He follows his great predecessors who since Pushkin and Gogol 
have regarded as the artist’s field of observation actual life, 
with its everydayness, its trivial situations, gray events, and 

40 An interview quoted by V. V. Brusyanin, in his introduction to Plays by 
L. Andreyev, pp. xxi-xxii. New York, 1915. I am unable to locate the orig- 

m 4 i These remarks are not intended as a detailed study of what Mr. Spingarn 
calls “dead lumber,” referring to the old paraphernalia of rhetoric {The New 
Criticism, p. 19. New York, i 9 xx). Like Mr. Spingarn, I agree with Croce’s view 
that “form and content cannot be separated from one another and considered 
apart” {Ariosto, Shakespeare and Corneille, p. 274. New York, 1920) ; and, like 
him I approve of Oscar Wilde’s dictum that “technique is really personality (in 
“The Critic as an Artist,” Intentions, p. 206. Putnam edition, 19*3)• This brief 
survey of Andreyev’s literary methods is undertaken precisely as a part of the 
study of his personality, not as a separate entity. 

42 Arthur Symons draws a clear distinction between Russian realism and French 
naturalism* “In a page of Zola and in a page of Tolstoy you might find the 
same gutter described with the same minuteness; and yet in reading the one you 
might see only the filth, while in reading the other you might feel only some 
fine human impulse.”— Plays, Acting and Music , p. 117. New York, 1909. 


ioo Leonid Andreyev 

commonplace individuals, not merely copying this life (a func¬ 
tion whose relevance to art is similar to that of a player sitting 
on the piano, to borrow a terse simile from Whistler 43 ), but 
reproducing it “through the veil of the soul,” in the old- 
fashioned words of Poe. 44 Russian realists, in depicting ordi¬ 
nary life and ordinary persons, have succeeded in discovering the 
eternal human beneath the most brutal exterior, in revealing 
the pathos of tragedy even in sordidness and banality, in giving 
us what Maupassant calls more than reality. 45 Andreyev is 
such a realist, when he deals with concrete life, his distinct trait 
being that of sublimating visible reality by means of thought 
which pervades his individuals and raises them above mere veg¬ 
etation, as we shall see later. 

Andreyev employs the realistic method in his early stories, 
and in practically all his nouvelles* 6 or long stories, including 

43 Ten O’Clock, p. 12. Portland, 1912. 

44 “Art is the reproduction of what the senses perceive in nature through the 
veil of the soul.”— In Marginalia, p. 226 (v. VII of Works, Stone & Kimball, 
Chicago, 1895). 

45 “Le realiste, s’il est un artiste, cherchera, non pas a nous montrer la photo¬ 
graphic banale de la vie, mais a nous en donner la vision plus complete, plus 
saisissante, plus probante que la realite meme.”—“Le Roman,” preface to Pierre 
et Jean, p. xv (Paris 1897, 61st edition). 

46 An analysis of the distinction between the short story, nouvelle and novel lies 
outside the scope of this essay. The term “nouvelle” is used here to denote those 
tales of Andreyev which, though possessing the quality of sustained unity, sin 
against the canon of brevity—the essential condition of “totality,” according to 
Poe ( The Philosophy of Composition, in v. VI, p. 34, of Works). As Mr. Arthur 
Ransome puts it, “the short story must be a single melody ending with itself; the 
nouvelle a piece of music, the motive of whose opening bars, recurring again and 
again throughout, is finally repeated with the increase in meaning that is given 
it by the whole performance. ( A History of Story Telling, p. 309. London, 1909.) 
The nouvelle is a suitable name for Andreyev’s longer writings, in which there 
may be many scenes, each one important in itself, yet all of them knit together 
by one motive, one plot. The nouvelle has flourished in Russian literature. To 
this type belong most of Pushkin’s and Gogol’s prose tales, Korolenko’s Blind 
Musician, Chekhov’s Ward Number Six, The Orlovs of Gorky, while the novelists 
par excellence were not less famous for their nouvelles. Suffice it to mention 
Turgenev’s Spring Freshets or Asya, Dostoyevsky’s A Gentle Soul or The Gambler, 
Tolstoy’s Cossacks or Sevastopol Tales. With Andreyev, too, the nouvelle was a 
favorite form of composition. His primary interest lying in neither plot nor set¬ 
ting but in character, in the evolution, experiences, and transformations of the 
individual, it is evident why he preferred the scope of a nouvelle to the novel’s 
complexity of plot and counterplot. He takes an individual, as, for instance, 
Father Vasily, and presents him to us in the various stages of his tragic life, each 
stage more or less complete in itself, yet forming an inseparable link in the chain 


Maturity and Solitude ioi 

his very last work, Satan’s Diary. A keen psychologist, pos¬ 
sessed of that rare gift of expression which Croce regards as 
the independent and autonomous “intuitive-expressive knowl¬ 
edge,” 47 Andreyev makes us visualize the world of reality in 
its full significance. As an artist he has the power of revealing 
to us the nature of individuals, things, emotions, of which we 
have only a vague impression, and whose “individuality escapes 
us,” according to Henri Bergson. 48 With a few bold strokes 
he can draw an unforgettable portrait. He has the eye for 
discerning the essential and characteristic amidst the thousands 
of details which block and confuse our ordinary vision. And, 
again, it is his artist’s discriminative power which selects the 
precise, felicitous word for the expression of his intuition. Suf¬ 
fice it to mention, as an illustration, The Story of The Seven 
That Were Hanged, where each one of the seven convicts is 
drawn at full length and depth with a great economy in means, 
and where even the minor characters, like the prison warden, 
or Kashirin’s sentinel, or the officers at the execution, are in¬ 
delibly stamped with the “individuality” to which M. Bergson 
refers. Not only does he succeed in making us visualize con¬ 
crete persons and situations, but he also takes us into the misty 
regions of our inner selves, and by dint of convincing images he 
renders the abstract and, for us, inexpressible, into palpable 
reality. Such, for instance, is his treatment of thought, his 
favorite subject, in numerous places, but with particular poig- 

of circumstances which build up the single motive—Vasil/s doomed tragedy. Or 
he presents seven individuals, in The Seven That Were Hanged, each one a com¬ 
plete portrait, and all of them strung together like beads on a string, the per¬ 
vading motive being death. In Sashka Zhegulev the hero is present in each of 
the numerous scenes described, being the sole motive of the evolving drama. 
Even when absent in flesh, as when his mother and sister discuss their lost dear 
one, Sashka Zhegulev dominates in spirit, the pivot of the conversation, the focus 
of all interests, memories, thoughts, emotions. The same unity of motive and 
variety of settings can be observed in Lazarus, The Governor, Satan’s Diary , and 
in all of Andreyev’s nouvelles. 

47 /.Esthetics, p. 18. 

48 <( L’individualite des choses et des etres nous echappe . . . nous ne voyons pas 
les choses memes; nous nous bornons, le plus souvent, a lire des etiquettes collees 
sur elles.” Le rire, pp. 156-158, passim (Paris, 1908). He comes to the conclusion 
that the arts alone may bring us face to face with reality, for “l’art n’est sure- 
ment qu’une vision plus directe de la realite.”— Ibid., p. 161. 


102 Leonid Andreyev 

nancy in Thought and The Governor, where human thought 
looms as a terrible and autonomous entity, dynamic and uncon¬ 
trollable. Or, to cite another example, his playful description 
of “shaggy” sleep, in Darkness, a story as yet unknown in the 
English language. 49 Without any visible effort or labor Andre¬ 
yev, when at his best, produces the desired impression. Thus 
he tells us (in Ghosts) that Yegor “displayed his gums when 
he laughed, and for this reason it seemed as though his whole 
self laughed, inside and outside, and as though his very hair 
laughed.” 50 He conveys the idea of Musya’s physical frailty 
and spiritual ardor by describing her excessively large prison 
coat, out of whose rolled-up sleeves emerged her “thin, almost 
childlike, emaciated hands, like flower stems out of a coarse, 
filthy pitcher,” and by mentioning the “hot pallor” of her face, 
which spoke of her great inner flame (in The Seven That Were 
Hanged 51 ). He suggests to us the deathly loneliness of the 
pickpocket (in The Thief), when spurned by all decent people 
he stands on the platform of the speeding train, and sings in 
unison with the noise of the wheels; he sings toward the setting 
sun, across the boundless fields, and pours out the yearning and 
anguish of a hunted animal in the simple motive of that twi¬ 
light song: “Come. Come to me.” 52 With what an unpre¬ 
tentious image he transmits the feelings of Haggart (in The 

49 When the Terrorist, for three days and nights hunted by the police, finally 
seeks immunity in a house of prostitution, his fatigue begins to show itself: 

“He tried to think about Thursday [the day on which he was to carry out his 
terroristic act] . . . but his thoughts rebelled, bristled, pricked one another. It was 
because offended sleep began to fret. So soft and gentle out there, on the street, 
here it no longer stroked caressingly his face with a hairy, shaggy palm, but it 
wrenched his legs and arms, and pulled his body as though intending to tear it. 

“. . . And he lay down . . . And sleep, delighted, smiled broadly, pressed the 
man’s cheek now with one shaggy cheek now with the other, softly embraced him, 
tickled his knees, and became blissfully quiet, resting a soft downy head on his 
breast. 

“. . . Down in the salon the music played, frequent stubby sounds with little 
bald heads began to prance swiftly, and he thought: ‘Now I may sleep’—and at 
once fell fast asleep. Triumphantly squeaked shaggy sleep, embraced him warmly, 
and breathless, in profound silence, both of them sped into a transparent, melt¬ 
ing deep.”— Works — IX, pp. 139, 142, 144. 

50 Works—V, p. 35. 

61 Works — Fill, pp. 15, 57. 

62 Works — V, pp. 11, 12. 


103 


Maturity and Solitude 

Ocean), who crouches in the dead of the night under the win¬ 
dow of the church: “The first sounds of the organ. Some 
one sits alone in the dark, and in an incomprehensible language 
converses with God about the most important thing.” 53 

The last words might well apply to Andreyev himself. His 
language became less “comprehensible” whenever he aspired to 
discuss the “most important things.” “I have never been able 
to express fully my attitude toward the world by way of realistic 
writing,” he admitted in a letter to Amfiteatrov. 54 The rapid 
success of his realistic productions, instead of tempting him to 
acquiesce in the applauded subject matter and medium, urged 
him on into unexplored regions. His ideas broadened, his quest 
deepened, and he found himself impelled to vary his medium. 
His ambition to postulate questions touching on universal 
values appeared fettered by realism. Realistic art deals with 
the concrete, it reproduces life as it is—that is, life composed 
of relativities, of lights and shadows. Abstractions, absolute 
conceptions, to be presented by story or play, must needs dis¬ 
card the forms of actual life, and replace them with conditional 
forms wherein nothing is any longer impossible or improbable. 
Intending, for instance, to present man’s life as essentially 
stupid, as ruled absolutely by malignant chance, Andreyev was 
forced to abandon realism, the enemy of absolutes, and create 
a life schematized, simplified, conventionalized, with the aid of 
symbols and allegories. As a child of his age, Andreyev voiced 
the contemporary want of a symbolic approach to life, a want 
reflected in current Scandinavian and Franco-Belgian literature 
as a reaction against realism overdone, just as one hundred 
years before romanticism appeared to be a recoil from stiff clas¬ 
sicism. Tolstoy’s resentment of modern tendencies as “arti¬ 
ficial” and coming from a desire to be striking and “original,” 
was due to his life-long endeavor to think rationally and to 
write realistically. He failed to admit that Strindberg and 
Maeterlinck, Andreyev and Claudel, Bryusov and Verhaeren, 
employed symbols chiefly because the complex modern soul was 

53 Works — XIII, p. 95. 

54 Probably in 1916. 


104 Leonid Andreyev 

weary of tangible particulars and sought to embrace universal 
abstractions, to interpret life in its quintessential aspect. 

The symbolic element is present in all of Andreyev’s works. 
As a modern artist, he prefers suggestion to outspokenness. 
With his painter’s sense for color, and with his general inborn 
feeling for rhythm, he usually endeavors to create an atmos¬ 
phere, a mood, with the aid of suggestive backgrounds, of sug¬ 
gestive sounds and words, of Stimmungssymbolik, in the ter¬ 
minology of Professor Volkelt. 55 The mad thoughts of Father 
Vasily (in Life of Vasily Fiveysky) on the eve of his final ca¬ 
tastrophe take place during a terrible night, to the accompani¬ 
ment of a raging and howling snowstorm. While he reads 
aloud to his guffawing idiot son from the Scripture, the wind 
comes wailing in unison: “Ikh dvoye. Ikh dvoye” (two of 
them), the repetition of the word “dvoye” imitating the wail 
of the wind in the chimney. In The Tocsin, the entire nerve- 
racking scene of the conflagration passes under the continuous 
groans and frantic shrieks of the alarm bells, a theme that may 
have been suggested by Poe’s poem. “Tak bylo. Tak budet,” 
monotonously tick-tacks the pendulum in Thus It Was, the re¬ 
curring refrain enforcing the idea of human incurable sameness. 
“Pokatilis, pokatilis,” rumble the wheels of the train, arous¬ 
ing a feeling of terror and doom in the heart of the thief ( The 
Thief). The mood of “madness and horror” in The Red 
Laugh is attained both by the repetition and reversal of these 
two words, and by means of coloring everything in red—the 
skies, the fields, the faces, the metal on the guns. Grayness is 
the prevailing color in The Life of Man, symbolizing the drab¬ 
ness of life and of man’s interests and aspirations. Music is 
prescribed in almost every play of Andreyev, suggesting such 
ideas as philistine commonplaceness (the ball scene in The Life 

55 Johannes Volkelt, System der /Esthetic, v. I: Grundlegung der /Esthetic, 
chapter VII, pp. 151-155. Munich, 1905. The author differentiates three kinds 
of symbolism in art—Vorstellungssymbolik, verallgemeinernde Symbolik, and Stim¬ 
mungssymbolik. To the first class belong such universally accepted notions as 
black being the sign of mourning; to the second, such all-human types as Shake¬ 
speare’s personages, or Goethe’s Faust; to the third, such means as color or sound 
employed for the suggestion of a certain mood. Andreyev has used all these 
classes. 


Maturity and Solitude 105 

of Man), social smugness and class contrasts (the quadrille in 
Tsar Hunger), the tragic mingling of beauty and ugliness, of 
chastity and vice (the Duke’s song, in The Black Maskers), 
universal cacophony and disharmony (the barrel organ, in 
Anathema), man’s longing for religion (Dan’s pipe organ, in 
The Ocean), the burlesque of life (the tango melody, in He 
Who Gets Slapped), man’s marionette-like impotence (the 
waltz of the dogs, in the play by the same title), the luring call 
of the flesh (the Egyptian music, in Samson Enchained ). 

Andreyev’s symbols possess also the quality of universal ap¬ 
plicability. His symbolic characters are for the most part gen¬ 
eralized particulars, individual cases placed in such circum¬ 
stances and situations as to lend them a universal, all-human 
significance. Vasily Fiveysky purports to be as universal a type 
as Job or Brand. Man, in The Life of Man, is intended to 
typify the average representative of the human race. The 
author of My Memoirs is a generalized rationalist. The 
Workmen in Tsar Hunger, as well as the Engineer, the Priest, 
the Bourgeois, the Hooligans, in the same play, represent re¬ 
spective human categories in their universal aspect. All great 
works of art possess this quality of implying a broad signifi¬ 
cance, for art, we may repeat, is essentially both realistic and 
symbolic. Where symbols predominate, however, where impli¬ 
cation is made prominent at the expense of explicitness, we expect 
the symbol to stand the test required by Goethe, namely: “Das 
ist die wahre Symbolik, wo das Besondere das Allgemeinere 
reprasentirt, nicht als Traum und Schatten, sondern als lebendig 
augenblickliche Offenbarung des Unerforschlichen.” 56 Andre¬ 
yev aims at achieving this persuasiveness in his symbolic works, 
at embodying in convincing flesh and blood images, metaphysical 
abstractions out of the region of the “Unerforschliches,” at pre¬ 
senting these as a “living momentary revelation.” He instills 
probability into the presentation of such unfathomable questions 
as Judas’s possibly high motives in betraying Christ, as the ul¬ 
timate analysis of one’s soul, with its known and unknown ele- 

56 Sammtiiche JVerke — III: Spriiche in Prosa, p. 184. Cotta edition, Stuttgart, 
1850. 


io6 Leonid Andreyev 

ments and factors, as the mystery of death, as the knowability 
of absolute wisdom and justice, as the feasibility of combining 
freedom with truth. But for a full achievement of this ambi¬ 
tious aim, Andreyev lacks the genius of Goethe. 

The main weakness in Andreyev’s purely symbolic works, 
The Life of Man, The Black Maskers, Anathema, The Ocean, 
consists in their lack of a persuasive unity of tone and mood. 
What Andreyev says of Maeterlinck in one of his essays is cu¬ 
riously applicable to his own symbolic productions: 

. . . the symbolic form is suitable for ideas, lending them unparalleled 
expanse, but it is dangerous for psychology: there can be no psychologic 
truth where a clear motivation is lacking, where the very basis of the 
soul’s movements is symbolic, of double meaning and words. The sym¬ 
bolist does not bring his heroes to tears, he forces them to weep; he pre¬ 
sents as a given fact that which still has to be proved—psychologically, of 
course. Granted that in La mort de Tintagiles, Maeterlinck’s strongest 
piece, the feeling of fear is developed with marvelous truthfulness, yet 
it is not sufficiently motivated, it lacks gradation, it is given from the 
very outset on faith; and if I am personally afraid of death, I shall readily 
become frightened, but, if not, I shall remain calm. More than mathe¬ 
matics does psychology demand: Prove! One may begin to yawn while 
looking at some one yawning, or to weep at the sight of a weeping man, 
or become scared in view of some one scared—the crowd knows this—but 
this is mere physiology. Only proven tears can move us to genuine grief, 
can arouse deep emotions. Maeterlinck does not prove, he only com¬ 
mands—and a command may be disobeyed. . . , 57 

One is inclined to disagree with Andreyev’s demand of the 
provability of symbols. In his own works as well as in those of 
Maeterlinck one is indeed often commanded to take things for 
granted, but one obeys the command by virtue of the mood 
created by the author, to which we succumb involuntarily. In 
Uintruse or Les aveugles, in many parts of The Black Maskers 
or of Anathema, the Stimmungssymbolik performs the function 
of drawing us under the influence of an atmosphere that is all- 
powerful and pervading. The fear of death suggested by La 

s ’ 1 Letters on the Theatre, in Wild Rose Almanacs, No. 22, pp. 267-268, Petro- 
grad, 1914. 


107 


Maturity and Solitude 

mort de Tintagiles is a universal feeling which requires no 
“proof.” Where proof is needed there the mood is not con¬ 
vincing. It is in this respect that Andreyev occasionally falls 
short, unlike Maeterlinck, whose early plays are irresistible in 
their sustained Stimmung. Andreyev often forces us to ask for 
proofs, because he destroys the unity of style, the unity of mood 
in his writings. Anathema in its Prologue and Epilogue is sym¬ 
bolic-allegoric, while through its five acts we are driven from 
rank realism (the masterly opening scene in the market-place) 
to incidental symbolism sandwiched between ordinary speeches 
(the motive of Rosa-beauty, the organ-grinder, Anathema’s 
asides). In The Life of Man we are prepared for a conven¬ 
tionalized atmosphere, with a Someone-in-Gray, a flickering 
candle, an algebraic Man. Then the author of a sudden breaks 
the suggestive tone by bits of realistic outspokenness. The 
screams of the mother giving birth to a child do not harmonize 
with the symbolized stage, nor does the figure of the regular 
stage doctor, nor some of Man’s ultra-realistic addresses to 
Someone-in-Gray. The reference to automobiles lends the play 
a chronologic finiteness, robbing it of its alleged fitness for all 
times and places. 

Andreyev’s lack of unity in the tone of his symbolic plays is 
evidenced also in his frequent failing to sustain the delicate sub¬ 
tlety of the symbol, and reducing it to allegory. The symbol 
bears an intrinsic value, is independent of its underlying mean¬ 
ing, and may be enjoyed for its apparent form as much as for its 
implied idea. The allegory, on the other hand, is not unlike 
a rebus, wherein every stroke and letter is indispensable for the 
construction of the whole idea, and is absolutely inseparable 
from the notion it formulates. Symbolism obviously requires 
more subtle art than allegory, the latter following closely upon 
the heel of the primitive fable. Andreyev is not the only artist 
who finds himself tempted to follow the direction of lesser re¬ 
sistance, and drop from the giddy edge of suggestive symbol 
to the plateau of demonstrative allegory . 58 Andreyev appears 

58 A striking instance may be cited from Ibsen’s The Lady of the Sea, in which 
the author fails to sustain the symbolization of the lure of the sea, and introduces 


108 Leonid Andreyev 

at times torn between the two modes of presentation. In The 
Life of Man allegory prevails, introducing, as in Everyman, 
personifications of abstract ideas. Yet the Man and his Wife, 
in their conversations and in the peripeteias of their fortunes, 
form a plot in itself, of suggestive symbolic artfulness, which is 
vitiated by the interspersed allegoric banalities. In Anathema, 
Anathema is an allegory, personifying the Evil spirit accursed 
by God, but at times he rises to symbolize the universal thirst 
for knowing the absolute truth, sinking again into allegory as 
Nullius, the tempter. Even The Black Maskers, than which 
Andreyev has written few more striking pieces of poetic prose 
suffused with Stimmungssymbolik, suffers from the intrusion of 
allegoric figures, such as the castle-soul, as Thoughts, Heart, 
Hate, which render the play in places too transparent for sym¬ 
bolism, yet too complex and obscure for a morality play. The 
break of unity defeats the author’s ambitious intention. 

Obscurity is another trait of Andreyev’s symbolic writings, 
hinted at by Tolstoy, and present not only in his plays, where 
clarity may be impeded by stage limitations of time and space, 
but also in some of his stories, the type of composition which 
allows scope for ample clearness of expression. Such of his 
works, as Judas Iscariot, Lazarus, The Black Maskers, The 
Ocean, have set the public and the critics guessing as to their 
true meaning, often arousing conjectures of various kinds. A 
noisy popular critic, K. Arabazhin, voiced the prevailing senti¬ 
ment by exclaiming: “We decidedly protest against reducing 
literary criticism to the solution of new rebuses and charades, 
labeled Symbols.” 59 One may agree with Pater concerning the 
“pleasurable stimulus” derived by strenuous minds from a style 
not too obvious , 60 and one can appreciate Andreyev’s fastidious 

in the end the Stranger, an obtrusive personification greatly impairing the delicate 
quality of the play. 

59 Leonid Andreyev, p. 228, Petrograd, 1910. 

60 “ <To go preach to the first passer-by’ says Montaigne, ‘to become tutor to the 
ignorance of the first I meet, is a thing I abhor’; a thing, in fact, naturally dis¬ 
tressing to the scholar, who will therefore ever be shy of offering uncomplimentary 
assistance to the reader’s wit. To really strenuous minds there is a pleasurable 
stimulus in the challenge for a continuous effort on their part, to be rewarded by 
a securer and more intimate grasp of the author’s sense.”— Appreciations, p. 17, 
London, 1911. 


109 


Maturity and Solitude 

frown at the need for new things to get the “vise” of a “vulgar 
and mediocre Arabazhin.” 61 Symbolic art has never been ac¬ 
cessible to the broad public, appealing as a special delight and 
aesthetic adventure to those who are in no hurry to “understand” 
when they approach art. There are not many who share Ed¬ 
mund Gosse’s pleasure in fathoming the obscurest of French 
Symbolistes, Stephane Mallarme, whose “desire was to use 
words in such harmonious combinations as will induce in the 
reader a mood or a condition which is not mentioned in the text, 
but was nevertheless paramount in the poet’s mind at the mo¬ 
ment of composition.” 62 Andreyev’s Ocean, Black Maskers, 
and many other productions, abound in such suggestive “har¬ 
monious combinations,” considerably less cryptic than Apres- 
midi d } un faune, whose obscurity aroused the somewhat vehe¬ 
ment plea of Remy de Gourmont for the need of a greater num¬ 
ber of obscure writers. 63 How Andreyev resented the public de¬ 
mands for “clearness” can be seen from the following extracts 
from his letter to the director of the Dramatic Theatre at Mos¬ 
cow, in reply to the latter’s request for a slight revision of The 
Black Maskers: 

For me The Black Maskers —the sad fate of Duke Lorenzo—is a thing 
complete, finished once and for all, which cannot tolerate any one’s inter¬ 
ference, not even the author’s. 

No matter how much I try to explain, he will never understand me, 

61 Letters on the Theatre, p. 269. 

62 French Profiles, p. 319, London, 1913. In regard to the quoted sentence of 
Gosse, Mallarme wrote to him: “II y a, entre toutes, une phrase, ou vous ecartez 
tous voiles et designez la chose avec une clairvoyance de diamant, le voici: ‘His 
desire was’ [etc.] Tout est la.”— Ibid., p. 320. 

63 “ii y a trop peu d’ecrivains obscurs en frangais; ainsi nous nous habituons 
lachement a n’aimer que des ecritures aisees, et bientot primaires. Pourtant il est 
rare que livres aveuglement clairs vailent la peine d’etre relus; la clarte, c’est ce 
qui fait le prestige des literatures classiques et c’est ce qui les rend si clairment 
ennuyeuses. Les esprits clairs sont d’ordinaire ceux qui ne voient qu’une chose a 
la fois; des que le cerveau est riche de sensations et d’idees, il se fait un remous 
et la nappe se trouble a l’heure du jaillissement. Preferons, comme X. Doudan, 
les marais grouillants de vie a un verre d’eau claire. Sans doute, on a soif, 
parfois; eh bien, on filtre. La literature qui plait aussitot a l’universalite des 
hommes est necessairement nulle; il faut que, tombee de haut, elle rejaillisse en 
cascade, de pierre en pierre, pour enfin couler dans la vallee a la portee de tous 
les hommes et de tous les troupeaux.”— La culture des idees, pp. 127, 128. Paris, 
1910. 


no Leonid Andreyev 

to whom are foreign the torments of rebellious conscience, the sorrow of 
lost hopes, the grief of deceived love and of friendship trampled under 
foot. . . . He will never understand me, whose soul is comfortably peace¬ 
ful, whose heart is thick with health and fat, whose ear is turned to the 
outside, but has never turned inward, has never heard the clang of clash¬ 
ing swords, the voices of madness and pain, the savage noise of the great 
battle, for which man’s heart has served as a field since time immemorial. 
He will never understand me, who has not lit a fire on the tower of his 
reason and of his heart, and has not perceived the illuminated road along 
which approach strange guests, and has not grasped that great riddle of 
existence—the appearance of darkness in response to the call of light, the 
emergence of black, cold beings knowing neither God nor Satan, shadows 
of shadows, beginnings of beginnings. Born of light, they love light, 
yearn for light, and extinguish it inevitably. And not one word do I 
wish to add for him who does not and never will understand me. As to 
those who do understand me, for them another word is superfluous . 64 

One cannot gainsay the author’s right to endow his works 
with an inner subtlety comprehensible only to those who possess 
a penetrating vision. Yet one cannot help accusing Andreyev 
of vagueness not only in regard to the hidden implications of 
certain symbols of his, but even of vagueness in their visible 
presentation. “All art hates the vague; not the mysterious 
but the vague,” observes Arthur Symons. 65 The Life of Vasily 
Fiveysky is a realistic tale, clearly told, with the main character 
as a symbolic type. The Life of Man is an allegoric-symbolic 
modernized morality play, where both the visible images and 
their underlying meanings are as comprehensible as Everyman 
or as Aglavaine et Selysette. Andreyev, like the early Maeter¬ 
linck, has the faculty of reducing universal problems and situa¬ 
tions to simple, almost naive formulae. 66 The more is one ag- 

64 From a letter addressed to “Konstantin Nikolayevich,” evidently Director Ne- 
zlobin. No date. Probably written in 1915, when The Black Maskers was pre¬ 
sented at the Dramatic Theatre. 

65 The Symbolist Movement in Literature, p. 307. 

66 Compare the Prayers of Man and his Wife, for simplicity in expressing a 
universal human attitude, with the words of Maeterlinck’s Aglavaine, stating one 
of the eternal tragic situations: 

. . . “n’est-ce pas etrange, Selysette? je t’aime, j’aime Meleandre, Meleandre 
m’aime, il t’aime aussi, tu nous aimes l’un et l’autre, et cependant nous ne pourrions 
pas vivre heureux, parce que l’heure n’est pas encore venue ou des etres humains 


Ill 


Maturity and Solitude 

gravated by the ambiguities encountered in his later works. 
Judas’s motive in betraying Christ is not made clear by the 
author, nor can we see our way clear in the labyrinthine symbols 
or allegories of The Ocean, nor may we be sure of comprehend¬ 
ing the sequence of events in The Black Maskers —is Duke 
Lorenzo insane in the first act or in the last? Again, the 
scene of the duel between the Duke and his double, as well as 
the scene of the Duke standing at the head of his dead body, 
are mystifying, to say the least, in regard to their visible prob¬ 
ability. The author evidently takes for granted that the 
reader or spectator knows what he knows, an assumption which 
provokes a comparison used by Andreyev in regard to Maeter¬ 
linck, namely, that the spectator of the Belgian’s plays resembles 
“a perfectly sober person appearing at a party, where every¬ 
body has been drunk for a long time, and where, moreover, all 
the wine has already been consumed: it is difficult to get in¬ 
toxicated just from drunken embraces!” 67 Or perhaps the 
author himself in not quite clear as to his ideas and intentions, 
hence the obscurity of his presentation? 68 This is not an ir¬ 
reverent innuendo, for we find Andreyev actually exalting the 
artist’s ignorance of his aims. Praising the Moscow Art 
Theatre for its gropings and errors, he states that “the genu¬ 
ine artist, like the sinner, must never know what he doeth. . . . 
The artist must be a mystery to himself, otherwise he may lose 

puissent s’unir ainsi. . . .”—Aglavaine et Selysette, Acte HI, scene 3, p. 79 of v - 
III, ed. Theatre. Paris, 1905. 

67 Letters on the Theatre, p. 268. 

68 Schopenhauer, the one thinker whom Andreyev admired to the end, has an 
incisive paragraph on this subject: 

“Dunkelheit und Undeutlichkeit des Ausdrucks ist allemal und uberall ein sehr 
schlimmes Zeichen. Denn in neunundneunzig Fallen under hundert ruhrt sie her 
von der Undeutlichkeit des Gedankens, welche selbst wiederum fast immer aus 
einem urspriinglichen Missverhaltniss, Inkonsistenz und also Unrichtigkeit desselben 
entspringt. Wenn, in einem Kopfe, ein richtiger Gedanke aufsteigt, strebt er schon 
nach der Deutlichkeit und wird sie bald erreichen: das deutlich Gedachte aber 
findet leicht seinen angemessenen Ausdruck.” Ueber Schriftstellerei und Stil, in 
v. IV of JVerke, p. 481. Weichert, Berlin. 

Essentially, this is also the view of Croce. He denies that we may have im¬ 
portant thoughts, and yet not be able to express them. Our failure to express them 
beautifully and fully testifies to the fact that we have not grasped those thoughts 
clearly and completely. For “every true intuition or representation is, also, 
pression” — /Esthetic, p. 13 ff-, passim. 


112 Leonid Andreyev 

his sincerity, with the loss of which he will lose everything. 
And even if the Art Theatre has indeed committed mistakes 
because of not knowing itself, then even this is for the best: 
mistakes are necessary, truth will spring forth out of them, as 
the grain stalk out of manure.” 69 These words Andreyev may 
have applied to himself: the publication of his Letters coincided 
with his new departure—his “pan-psychic” productions, of which 
we shall speak presently. 

Tolstoy’s admonition against “hasty writing,” and his direct 
advice to Andreyev to “work longer” over his compositions, 
touch upon another important side of the author’s personality 
—his inability to create consciously and laboriously. “He 
could not change or polish up the things he had written,” ob¬ 
serves K. Chukovsky. . . . “His works were extemporaneous 
improvizations by their very nature.” 70 Maxim Gorky also 
reprimands Andreyev for his “slipshod” writing, for his lack 
of assiduity, for his aversion to “work.” “He treated his 
talent,” says Gorky, “as a poor rider treats his splendid steed— 
he galloped it mercilessly, but never cherished nor loved it. 
His hand could not keep up with his vehement fantasy in draw¬ 
ing its complicated designs, and he did not take care to develop 
the power and dexterity of his hand.” 71 The truth is that both 
Tolstoy and Gorky were guilty of occasional “slipshod” writ¬ 
ing—few Russian prose writers have been immune from this 
sin. Yet Tolstoy, who rewrote his gigantic War and Peace 
seven times, and who taxed the patience of his family and his 
publishers with his numerous corrections and changes , 72 was 
justified in demanding fastidiousness on the part of the younger 
writers. While Chekhov still preserved the traditions of Tur¬ 
genev’s chiseled prose, his younger contemporaries displayed a 
hurried carelessness in their impressionistic compositions. The 
Znaniye group expressed their departure from the “gentry 
literature” not only in contents, but in tone and form as well, 
flaunting as it were their care-free manners and defiance of con- 

69 Letters on the Theatre, p. 247. 

70 A Book on Andreyev, p. 51. 

71 Ibid., p. 33. 

72 See G. R. Noyes, Tolstoy, pp. 132-134. New York, 1918. 


Maturity and Solitude 113 

ventions. In direct contrast to these ‘‘savages” stood the 
group of the so-called Decadents or Symbolists, the small coterie 
of Russian followers of the Franco-Belgian Parnassiens and 
their successors, the Symbolistes. The writers of this group 
often placed form above content. Andreyev occupied his usual 
position among his contemporaries—a solitary position. En¬ 
dowed with a natural feeling for rhythm, and with a fine sense 
for form and color (witness his not unsuccessful attempts at 
painting), Andreyev produced at times a prose which would 
have delighted even such an exacting stylist as Flaubert. But 
being an “inspirational” writer, he depended exclusively on his 
intuition, scorning the toil and travail recommended and prac¬ 
ticed by such masters of technique as E. A. Poe. Certainly he 
was incapable of the amazing perseverance with which Gustave 
Flaubert labored over his style, painstakingly searching for the 
form that would precisely fit the idea . 73 

Because of the beautiful brilliance of Andreyev’s style, its 
drawbacks and flaws are much more irritating than they would 
be in a modest, gray style. A tiny spot may be quite lost on 
drab material, but it bulges and looms in magnitude when on a 
bright cloth. In a masterpiece, psychological as well as stylis¬ 
tic, like The Seven That Were Hanged, one is particularly an¬ 
noyed by a few points which show lack of reserve in the author. 
The final pages relating the arrival of the prisoners at the place 
of execution, their last words, and their death, are filled with 

73 “Possessed of an absolute belief that there exists but one way of expressing 
one thing, one word to call it by, one adjective to qualify, one verb to animate it, 
he gave himself to superhuman labor for the discovery, in every phrase, of that 
word, that verb, that epithet. In this way, he believed in some mysterious har¬ 
mony of expression, and when a true word seemed to him to lack euphony still 
went on seeking another, with invincible patience, certain that he had not yet got 
hold of the unique word. ... A thousand preoccupations would beset him at the 
same moment, always with this desperate certitude fixed in his spirit: Among all 
the expressions in the world, all forms and turns of expressions, there is but one 
—one form, one mode—to express what I want to say.”—Walter Pater, Appre¬ 
ciations, p. 29, quoting “a sympathetic commentator.” 

Gorky states that occasionally Andreyev would become aware of his frivolous 
attitude toward his style, and then he would say: “Yes, I must read Flaubert. 
You are apparently right: He is, indeed, a descendant of one of those genius- 
masons who built the indestructible cathedrals of the Middle Ages !”—A Book 
on Andreyev, p. 33* 


114 Leonid Andreyev 

subdued pathos, and are written in such a delicate language that 
one is hardly aware of it as of a medium. Yet carried away by 
an impressionistic sleight, Andreyev twice underlines the detail 
of Sergey’s lost golosh looming black on the snow field: a shriek¬ 
ing detail in the hushed atmosphere. Or again: the concluding 
paragraph describing the dead bodies lolling in the coffins, with 
“elongated necks, bulging eyes, and blue tongues protruding 
from their mouths,” is a crude bit of naturalism which adds 
nothing to the impressiveness of the story, but rather weakens 
the effect of surcharged, unuttered tragedy. In the chapter, 
“Kiss him and be silent,” in the same story, Andreyev draws one 
of the most heartrending scenes in world literature. Few can 
read it without choking emotion. Yet the chapter contains not 
one loud word, not one emphatic phrase or simile. “Here took 
place that which one must not and cannot describe,” is the some¬ 
what disappointing conclusion of this chapter. But Andreyev’s 
omission in this case is more pardonable, if not praiseworthy, 
than his failure to omit the obtrusive details of the golosh and the 
bulging eyes. Here and elsewhere he is guilty of a lack of selec¬ 
tiveness, a sin one could not attribute to Turgenev or Chek¬ 
hov, a sin that would appear unpardonable to Walter Pater . 74 
This weakness is demonstrated in such works of Andreyev as 
The Wall, The Red Laugh, The Tocsin, The Curse of the 
Beast, Life of Vasily Fiveysky, Lazarus. Each of these pro¬ 
ductions illustrates some powerful idea—life’s cruelty and fu¬ 
tility, the madness of war, the pathos of solitude, the horror 
of city life, the tragedy of faith colliding with reason, the para¬ 
lyzing terror of death. Moreover, they all succeed in driving 
their central idea home, they persuade the reader. Yet each 
one of them suffers in a larger or lesser degree from what Pater 
calls surplusage. The reader is convinced not by way of sug- 

74 «<The artist,’ says Schiller, ‘may be known rather by what he omits*; and in 
literature, too, the true artist may be best recognized by his fact of omission.” 
And on the next page: “Surplusage! he [the true artist] will dread that, as the 
runner on his muscles. For in truth all art does but consist in the removal of 
surplusage, from the last finish of the gem engraver blowing away the last particle 
of invisible dust, back to the earliest divination of the finished work to be, lying 
somewhere, according to Michelangelo’s fancy, in the rough-hewn block of stone.” 
— Appreciations, pp. 18, 19, 20. 


Maturity and Solitude 115 

gestion, of aesthetic emotion, but rather by means of a verbal 
sledgehammer. The reader yields to the author’s argument in 
a state resembling physical exhaustion caused by a cumulative 
succession of horrors. The inner idea is conveyed to him by 
means of external details which prepare him, one might say, 
physiologically, for the attitude which the author wishes him to 
accept. Thus his aversion for life is generated by a series of 
nauseating descriptions of malodorous lepers, in The Wall. 
His hatred for war is aroused with the aid of heaps of dead 
bodies and masses of demented beings, to the brazen accom¬ 
paniment of the refrain: “Madness and horror. Horror 
and madness,” in The Red Laugh. An uninterrupted series of 
misfortunes and accidents in the life of the pious Vasily Fivey- 
sky leads you to doubt the justice of Providence. The horror 
of death creeps upon you from the livid motionless hand of 
Lazarus, “forgotten on the table.” These methods of persua¬ 
sion may be legitimate for purposes of propaganda, but to art 
they are as foreign as gore-filled slaughter houses or anatomical 
museums. Andreyev would probably reject them if he gave 
them a second thought, if he were not in a hurry to express his 
momentary intuition, which one could hardly expect to be always 
felicitous. It is this “hurry” that explains why he uses at times 
violent epithets and bombastic metaphors—a sheer “surplus¬ 
age.” Despite his wonderful mastery of the Russian language, 
his excellent utilization of the most intimate recesses of human 
speech, he sometimes sacrifices simplicity to such labored phrases 
as “each nerve resembled a rearing bent wire, on whose edge 
rose a little head with eyes madly bulging from horror, with a 
convulsively gaping mouth, speechless mouth” (in the first chap¬ 
ter of The Seven That Were Hanged) ; “The bell suffocated in 
torments of death agony, and it moaned like a person who no 
longer expected help, and had no more hope” (The Tocsin ). 
He uses too unsparingly such expressions as “terror,” “grave 
and enigmatic fate,” “enormous, bottomless silence,” “ele¬ 
mental boundless thought,” “boundless calm,” “silently enig¬ 
matic fields,” “fatal inevitability,” “boundless all-powerful 
darkness ” “fiery liquid in a cup of sufferings”—all these ep- 


n 6 Leonid Andreyev 

ithets appearing in a single realistic work, The Life of Vasily 
Fiveysky, and typical of his occasional loud speech elsewhere. 
The brass music often detracts from the unity of tone, and weak¬ 
ens the hold of the main motive on your attention and interest. 
As Walter Pater remarks: 

. . . the ornamental word, the figure, the accessory form or color or 
reference, is rarely content to die to thought precisely at the right mo¬ 
ment, but will inevitably linger a while stirring a long “brain wave” be¬ 
hind it of perhaps quite alien associations. 75 

Gorky tells us of his futile efforts to persuade Andreyev to 
labor with care on his composition. Amazed at his energetic 
creative activity at Capri, soon after the death of his first wife, 
Gorky at the same time observed many inaccuracies in Andre¬ 
yev’s writings. But when Gorky protested that “Duke of 
Spadaro” (in The Black Maskers) would sound to an Italian 
as absurdly as “Prince Bashmachnikov” (shoemaker) to a Rus¬ 
sian, and that in the twelfth century there had been no St. Ber¬ 
nard dogs, Andreyev was annoyed. “These are trifles,” he re¬ 
torted. And he considered “nonsense” the remark that one 
must not use the expression: “they drink wine like camels,” that 
one should say: “as camels drink water.” 76 Gorky admits, 
however, his admiration for his friend’s brilliant talent. Re¬ 
garding himself humbly as “a dray horse” rather than as “an 
Arabian steed,” Gorky worked hard on the education of his 
mind, read quantities of books, endeavored to gather informa¬ 
tion, facts, precise knowledge. On numerous occasions Andre¬ 
yev astonished him by divining at one glance the essence of some 
very complex matter, on which Gorky had spent much time and 
labor. “Leonid Nikolayevich,” says Gorky, “was talented by 
his very nature, organically talented; his intuition was amaz¬ 
ingly sensitive. In everything pertaining to the dark sides of 

75 Ibid.., p. 18. Andreyev’s loud phrases would certainly have been scorned by 
his “master,” Schopenhauer, who admonished the German writers, “dass man 
zwar, wo moglich, denken soli wie ein grosser Geist, hingegen die selbe Sprache 
reden wie jeder andere. Man brauche gewohnliche Worte und sage ungewohn- 
liche Dinge.”— W erke — IV, p. 480. 

76 A Book on Andreyev, p. 33. 


Maturity and Solitude 117 

life, to the contradictions in man’s soul, to ebullitions in the re¬ 
gion of instincts, he was uncannily perspicacious.” 77 

It becomes evident that Andreyev created almost all his 
works not in the cool atmosphere of deliberation, but in the 
quick flame of inspirational intuition. Conceiving in a flash 
some image or idea, he would become impregnated with it, and 
be relieved only upon discharging it speedily, reluctant to pro¬ 
long the pangs of travail. Skitalets describes his conversation 
with the Andreyevs, during which he expressed his wonder at 
the fact that “such a big and powerful thing” as The Ocean 
was written in so short a time as two weeks. Whereupon 
Mme. Andreyev retorted that in her opinion “that was the only 
way in which the tragedy could have been written—by inspira¬ 
tion.” Her husband, while dictating it, “ran up and down the 
study like one possessed, his hair standing on end, his eyes burn¬ 
ing .. . One might lose one’s reason by writing such mad fan¬ 
tasies too long.” 78 In the same way he created his other 
works, consumed by an inner flame which was urgent and per¬ 
mitted neither respite nor deliberation. Mme. Andreyev spoke 
to me of her feeling of wonderment during the period when her 
husband produced Anathema . “The work,” she wrote to me 
on another occasion, “was genuine inspiration. Not a single 
correction was made in the manuscript. One night he dictated 
to me eight hours in succession.” Once written and published, 
his production did not interest him: he did not think of it, re¬ 
garded it with a certain coldness, “as though he was oversated 
by it,” according to Chukovsky . 79 This was at any rate true 
during his artistic activity—that is, before the. war. He did not 
like to discuss his former works, but was always looking forward 
to his next one, which he expected to excel everything he had 
done before . 80 One gains the impression that literary activity 

77 Ibid., pp. io, ii, 19, passim. 

78 Russia’s Voice, February 21, 1922. 

79 A Book on Andreyev, p. 51. , 

80 Ibid., p. 51. In a letter to Nemirovich-Danchenko, director of the Moscow 
Art Theatre Andreyev wrote, evidently in reply to some remark about his play 
which was running then at that theatre: “I am not thinking about Kathenna 
Ivanovna and I do not intend to. Why should I? To-day or to-morrow I set 
out to write a new play, and already these new people, with whom I am as yet 


n8 Leonid Andreyev 

was to Andreyev not so much a positive joy as a liberation from 
fixed, obsessing ideas. How could Tolstoy or Gorky expect 
him to be slow and meticulous about his composition, when this 
process amounted to pulling an arrow out of one’s wound! One 
should bear in mind, furthermore, that Andreyev’s reasoning 
faculty hardly functioned in his creative moments. About one 
year before his death he entered in his diary the admission that 
nearly all his “best things were written at times of the greatest 
personal confusion, during periods of the most depressing mental 
experiences.” Thus he wrote Judas shortly after the death of 
his first wife, when his thought was “completely in bondage to 
the images of her illness and death.” His Seven That Were 
Hanged he composed while “sick and crazed after a spell of 
drunkenness.” During his most productive period, in the au¬ 
tumn of 1908, he was living through a terrible tragedy. “It is 
beyond doubt that regarding my personal state of mind during 
those months I was in a condition of psychosis, of a serious semi¬ 
dementia.” Yet it was then that he wrote “with unusual light¬ 
ness and speed” his My Memoirs —“the work was interrupted 
by moods which were close to murder and insanity”; then Days 
of Our Life, The Black Maskers , 81 The Son of Man, and Ana¬ 
thema. “On the contrary, after a good sleep, in a balanced 
state of mind, in fair health and domestic prosperity, my writ¬ 
ing was poorer.” The conclusion at which Andreyev arrives in 
that entry is perhaps too sweeping, a reflection of his morbid 
physical and mental condition at the time of writing the diary, 
but like every exaggeration it contains an element of truth: 
“Hence the conclusion: My thought is the enemy of my work. 
It is necessary for me to think of something else, in order to let 

but slightly acquainted, agitate me, draw me into their emotions and experiences, 
lure me. . . . To them, indeed, I am going.”—(Written in the fall of 1912). 

81 Mme. Andreyev informs me in a letter that Days of Our Life was completed 
in seven days and The Black Maskers in the following seven days. It is remark¬ 
able how the author could transport himself from one mood to an altogether differ¬ 
ent one without pausing. Another illustration both of his speed and of his artistic 
reaction to “depressing experiences,” is given by Mme. Andreyev: “The Parrot 
or rather The Pessimist [a one act symbolic play, about ten pages long] was 
written in three or four hours on a certain evening, when Leonid Nikolayevich 
became agitated by the high temperature of our boy, Savva . . .” 


Maturity and Solitude 119 

intuition get freed and boldly create its own work, not depend¬ 
ing on reason, and not pursued by it.” 82 

A word more must be said in connection with Andreyev’s 
literary methods. His Letters on the Theatre, published in 
1912—1913, are interesting both as a retrospect and as a fore¬ 
cast. He advocates there the need of reforming the theatre 
from that of external action to one of “soul,” of “pan-psyche.” 
Action, movement on a large scale, reproduction of visible, phys¬ 
ical life, he relegates to the cinematograph. The “legitimate” 
stage must relinquish its outworn methods and conventional 
plots. The age of Benvenuto Cellini, with its numerous inci¬ 
dents, escapes, murders, surprises, is gone. The modern in¬ 
tellectual is more interested in the personality of a Nietzsche, 
externally uneventful, “yet of the most tragic hero of modern¬ 
ity.” The theatre ought to satisfy the subtle requirement of 
the modern audience, by revealing the inner world of the soul, 
by displaying the interaction of thoughts, of moods. This view 
of Andreyev sheds light on his important works written before 
that time, in which he had intended to unveil the soul of modern 
man, and analyze his institutions, beliefs, doubts, seekings, as¬ 
pirations. His criticism, in these Letters, of the symbolic 
drama, and in particular of Maeterlinck “commanding” sym¬ 
bolism, indicates perhaps the author’s feeling of having partially 
failed in accomplishing his purpose in his own symbolistic plays. 
The weakness of these, discussed in the preceding pages, con¬ 
sisted largely in their lack of inner and exterior unity, in the 
clash between the visible reality and the underlying symbol, 
where the two should merge and harmonize. Andreyev’s re¬ 
mark about the salutary effect of mistakes, with reference to 
the Moscow Art Theatre, 83 has a personal application. Indeed, 
his first Letter was published in 1912, one year after The Ocean . 
The plays which followed this Tragedy, Professor Storitsyn, 
Katherina Ivanovna, Thou Shalt Not Kill, He Who Gets 
Slapped, The Waltz of the Dogs (published posthumously), 

82 A fuller exposition of this remarkable entry is, unfortunately, considered pre¬ 
mature. 

83 Supra, pp. hi, 112. 


120 Leonid Andreyev 

Samson Enchained (yet unpublished in the Russian), and some 
minor attempts, present Andreyev’s departure from symbolism 
to what he labels pan-psychism. Still convinced that the 
stage ought to be an arena for the display of our inner ex¬ 
periences rather than of external “action,” he succeeds in fusing 
both elements. His plays of this period are psychologically 
correct and “provable,” and they are free from the obvious 
flaw of his earlier symbolic productions—obscurity. His later 
dramas, pregnant though they are with symbols, are understand¬ 
able to the average audience. He Who Gets Slapped has been 
a theatrical success, even in the United States, the land of the 
tired business man. The reason for this success lies in the fact 
that though failing to grasp the hidden meanings and symbols 
in this play, the audience finds satisfaction in its visible, univer¬ 
sally comprehensible element. A symbolistic, or “pan-psychic,” 
work of art ought to have such a double appeal—to persons of 
a limited, superficial vision, and, over the head of these, to the 
chosen few who are congenial with the author. Writing to the 
director of the Moscow Art Theatre about Samson Enchained, 
Andreyev says: “Here is a formal tragedy, and at the same 
time a tragedy based on inner experiences, pan-psyche, psychic 
realism—call it what you will. My ideal: a tragedy over which 
Schopenhauer and his cook would weep together.” 84 

Andreyev’s personal attitude toward the form of his writings 
has been clearly expressed in his private letters, where he found 
it easier to dot the i’s. Of particular interest is his letter to 
Alexander Amfiteatrov, a prolific journalist and novelist, pop¬ 
ular with the pre-revolutionary radical readers. The external 
clarity of Thou Shalt Not Kill prompted Amfiteatrov to con¬ 
gratulate its author on his “return” to realism. Here are some 
excerpts from Andreyev’s answer: 

It is true, that Thou Shalt Not Kill is realistic in character, at least in 
its external form. But it signifies neither a deviation in the direction of 
“genuine” realism nor a renunciation of my mystic-symbolic seekings. 
The plain fact is that such a form was the only one which suited the 


M Letter to V. I. Nemirovich-Danchenko, dated December 28, 1914. 


Maturity and Solitude 121 

particular mood (not my personal mood) and the particular idea ... I 
have never kept to one form as obligatory, and, generally speaking, have 
never fettered the freedom of my form or tendency. . . . 

In contrast to the prevailing categorical insistence on form as the 
primary source of the contents, to me form has been and is merely the 
boundary of the contents, determined by'it, and issuing from it. Roughly 
speaking, man comes first, and his trousers afterward. . . . 

It may be lack of power, but I have never been able to express fully 
my attitude toward the world by way of realistic writing. Most prob¬ 
ably, this indicates that by my inner literary-human make-up I am not a 
realist. What am I, then? A mystic? I do not know. And, when all 
is said, I simply do not understand, and—pardon me—I do not accept 
this classification, it appears ridiculous to me. For, in my view, Alexey 
Maximovich [Gorky] is just such a mystic . . . and just such a mystic 
was the most realistic Ludwig Borne in the moment when with closed 
eyes he sang to the mystic joy of death on a barricade. 

Life is a Mystery for all who think and live in earnest. The main 
question is, Where does man come in [in the artist’s work] ?—and not 
whether one employs “symbols” for the expression of his feelings, or the 
form of a Turgenev-Kuprin novel. Let him express himself by means of 
a cube . . . only let him express man, and not a hog in a skullcap. 

. . . But sometimes form may arouse hatred and ardent desire to bat¬ 
tle with it. This occurs in the case, unfortunately not too rare, when 
form becomes a dogma, an exclusive path into paradise. And when sym¬ 
bolism demands of me that I shall even blow my nose symbolically, I 
shall send it to the devil. And when realism requires that even my 
dreams be constructed after the recipe of Kuprin’s stories, then I reject 
realism. 85 

In this letter we have Andreyev’s creed. He expresses here 
his hatred for fetters and dogmas, his paramount interest in 
man, his complex make-up, his variegated modes of approach to 
life. In the last account he is a realistic writer, for when at his 
best he lends the quality of gripping actuality to the world of 
his creation, even if this world be woven out of the threads of 
his fantasy. Had he obeyed the admonition of Tolstoy, and 
“worked longer” on his writings, these might have been more 
evenly effective. But Andreyev would not have been Andreyev 

85 Letter, probably written in 1916. See supra, p. 103. 


122 Leonid Andreyev 

if he had emulated Tolstoy or Gorky or Flaubert. He must 
be taken for what he is, with all his shortcomings and idiosyn¬ 
crasies. The flaws in his style diminish but slightly the value 
of his work as an expression of our questioning age. We may 
sum up with the words of his bitter opponent, Dmitri Merezh- 
kovsky, who, after abusing Andreyev as an artist, has this to 
say in explanation of his interest in the latter’s productions: 

At all events, in regard to his influence on the reader’s mind, he has no 
equal among the contemporary Russian writers. All of them are candles 
under bushels, he alone is a candle on the table. They have infected no 
one, he infects everybody. Good or bad, this is so, and the critics cannot 
help considering this, if criticism consists in understanding not only that 
which is written about life, but also that which takes place in life. 

The aesthetes of the Roman decadence refused to read the Apostle Paul, 
because he wrote an imperfect Greek. Those were losers in the end who 
did not read Paul: they overlooked Christianity. I am not comparing 
Andreyev with the Apostle Paul, but I fear lest we overlook life in this 
case, too. 86 

Externally, Andreyev’s life in Finland had the appearance of 
success and prosperity. He became the highest paid author in 
Russia, his contributions were solicited by editors, publishers, 
stage producers, and even directors of moving pictures. Yet, 
owing to his fastidiousness, he refused to cater to the public 
taste, to compromise for its sake at the request of those solici¬ 
tors, and though well known and universally read, he enjoyed 
neither popularity nor affection. Hence he never attained 
financial success, and never made his income correspond with 
the large expenditures made necessary by his “broad” mode of 
living, with its Russian hospitality and Russian unpracticality. 87 
He craved material independence, in order to afford the luxury 
of writing precisely what and as he pleased, ignoring the polite 
“suggestions” of publishers and producers, as well as the vitu¬ 
perations of “up-to-date” critics. 88 With the exception of The 

86 In a Still Slough, p. 205. 

87 He nicknamed his Finnish home “Villa Avance,” because it was built and 
kept up by advances on his future productions. 

88 As late in his career as 1915 he had to fight for his freedom of expression, as 
can be seen from the following passage, taken from a letter to a director of a 


123 


Maturity and Solitude 

Seven That Were Hanged y nearly every important work of his 
since The Life of Man met with abuse on the part of newspa¬ 
per reviewers and popular critics, such as Arabazhin, and such 
professional theatrical reporters as Yartsev and Efros. 89 He 
was generally reproached for the obscurity of his symbols, ac¬ 
cused of pornography, and relegated to the dustbin as out of 
date. The last murderous argument was advanced in view of 
Andreyev’s persistently gloomy tone, in spite of the fact that 
during the half decade before the war all was apparently well 
in Russia. 90 Unmoved by the blatancy of the superficial mod- 

theatre: “If they are not going to publish my work in a way I consider worthy, 
I shall simply give nothing for publication; if a play of mine cannot be produced 
in the proper way, it shall not be produced at all. And, in general, I prefer en¬ 
tirely not to be rather than to exist ‘relatively.’ ”—Letter dated May 26, 1915. 

89 These two, writing for Moscow and Petrograd publications, were considerably 
more reserved in their tone than the provincial reporters. To cite an example: 
In 1910 Andreyev found himself forced to issue a public “explanation” in connec¬ 
tion with the attack of the Kiev reporters against his work and personality. He 
quoted some of the epithets those gentlemen applied to him, such as “commercial 
artist,” “pimp of his talent,” and the like.— Theatre and Art (Teatr i Iskusstvo ), 
No. 37, p. 679. Petrograd, 1910. 

Andreyev’s treatment by the conservative ecclesiastics is typified in an article 
by Bishop Hermogenes, during the same year, in which he labels Anathema “an 
infamous pasquinade against Divine Providence,” citing numerous passages from 
the New Testament to prove that Andreyev has intended his play as a diatribe 
against Christ and Christianity, his other aim being “the replacement of Chris¬ 
tianity by so-called Demonism, or the worship of the devil, as a basis for modern 
life.” In regard to Andreyev’s play, Anfisa, the bishop is “deeply convinced” that 
it “contains a patent and conscious advocacy of depravity and abominable vices.” 
The bishop concludes that Andreyev presents “without doubt” “a certain dark and 
evil power emanating from Freemasonry or from some other revolutionary organi¬ 
zations.”— The Russian Banner (Russkoye Znamya), No. 3, 1910; the most reaction¬ 
ary daily published in Petrograd. 

90 This point of view was fully expressed by Professor Peter Kogan in his Notes 
on the History of Modern Russian Literature (Ocherki po istorii noveyshey russkoy 
literatury), v. Ill, part II, pp. 1-61 (Moscow, 1912), in which he devoted to An¬ 
dreyev sixty scathing pages. Considering literature as a direct reflection of con¬ 
temporary social moods, this critic came to the conclusion that Andreyev was a 
superannuated writer, since he voiced the pessimistic views of the preceding decade 
instead of voicing the vigorous and joyous present. It may be objected, in the first 
place, that Andreyev’s productions reflect not temporary moods for their own sake, 
but use them as a basis for eternal questions which have occupied thinking minds 
since time immemorial. Secondly, Professor Kogan’s optimism in regard to the 
contemporary pulse of society was hardly warranted. The deep impression made 
on the public by Andreyev’s plays of that period— Professor Storitsyn, Katherina 
Ivanovna, Thou Shalt Not Kill— was due precisely to the fact of their illuminating 
the reigning emptiness, pettiness, weariness and vulgarity of Russian society in the 
year* immediately preceding the war. Indeed, there were Russians who ade- 


124 Leonid Andreyev 

ern prophets and seers, continuing to heed only the “voice of 
God”—his inner voice, Andreyev courted solitude and isolation. 
That he did not bear his position altogether indifferently may 
be seen from the following passages taken from a letter of his 
to Nemirovich-Danchenko (date of March 27, 1913) : 

For five years, having neither allies nor sympathetic critics nor a single 
friendly press organ, I have been battling alone against my critics and 
my readers for my writer’s Self. For five years I have been covered with 
incessant vulgar abuse, and bespattered with mud from head to foot—for 
everything I do. . . . 

All Russia, without exaggeration, lives on Katherina Ivanovna, as it 
did a while ago on Professor Storitsyn; the subscription list for The Field, 
owing to its giving my works as a premium, has risen to thirty-five thou¬ 
sand . . . and in the meantime Arabazhin reads lectures “On the causes 
of the wane of Andreyev’s popularity.” 

You [the Moscow Art Theatre] are staging The Life of Man: they 
praise you and scold me. You produce Anathema —they dub me idiot, 
while you and Kachalov [the player of Anathema] are exalted. The 
same happens with Katherina Ivanovna. 

As we have observed before, Andreyev, though solitary by 
nature, was not strong enough to bear solitude. In his life he 
needed the comradeship of such ideal companions as his first 
wife and her successor. In his art he yearned for the support 
and encouragement of these and of those few fellow-artists 
whom he deemed capable of judging his works without bias of 
party or creed. As such he regarded with particular esteem the 
members of the Moscow Art Theatre, who have aided immeas¬ 
urably the development of the Russian drama and stage, who 
have given an example of a group of men and women striving 
with the most disinterested devotion toward the highest artis- 

quately appreciated Andreyev’s dark reflections. Thus Katherina Ivanovna formed 
the topic of serious discussion at an evening of “The All-Russian Literary Society,” 
at Petrograd, early in 1913, where the play was favorably analyzed by critics and 
dramatists and by its producer, V. I. Nemirovich-Danchenko (Two Truths, p. 146). 
The well-known painter and art-critic, Alexander Benois, published an article 
about the play (in Speech [ Rech\ No. 129, 1913), stating that public opinion had 
been deeply stirred by Katherina Ivanovna manifestly because it “touched on im¬ 
portant contemporary problems,” provoking “our dark despair, our hopeless 
sorrow,” and reflecting the spiritual emptiness of our life. 


125 


Maturity and Solitude 

tic goal attainable, and who, among other achievements, 
stimulated Chekhov to create plays by offering him an adequate 
stage with the proper Stimmung. Ever since his reporter days 
Andreyev had admired this theatre, and later he experienced the 
joy of seeing his best plays produced there. He had a dream of 
making this theatre his “own,” of co-operating with it heart and 
soul, of using it as a free and supple springboard for his ideas, 
regardless of their unpopularity. “You are the only theatre,” 
he wrote to Nemirovich-Danchenko (October 24, 1912); “this 
is true, but I assure you without shame or remorse that I, too, 
am the only one among the living dramatists who can rise to 
your height. ... As far as I am concerned, I know that if I 
had the immutable support of such a theatre as yours, I should 
write twice as decently. ... By Jove, I should even risk a 
podvig!” 91 Andreyev’s ardent suit was reciprocated with re¬ 
serve. The directors of the theatre, though brave and independ¬ 
ent, were reluctant to face something like a public scandal with 
every play by Andreyev that they presented. The Life of 
Man was greeted by a hail of abuse and mockery, furnishing 
abundant food for cartoonists and burlesquers. 92 Anathema 
brought, indeed, fame to the actors, particularly to Kachalov, 
in the title role; but the author fared badly at the hands of the 
reviewers and the clergy, the latter succeeding finally in having 
the play forbidden by the authorities. When Katherina Ivan¬ 
ovna was presented, Andreyev—at that time in Rome, on a visit 
—was informed by Nemirovich-Danchenko in a telegram of “a 
regular battle between applause and protests” taking place in 
the auditorium. Andreyev commented on this reception in a 
letter to a friend (December 23, 1912) : “The theatre from 
which even applause has been excluded [by the request of the 
directors], where the actors and the very curtain have become 
accustomed to respect and deference, where even a wry smile 
appears as an offense, this respectable theatre reverberates with 
hisses!” Indeed, violent reactions were out of place at that 

91 The word “podvig” signifies a heroic deed, whether a feat of physical prowess 
or an act of saintly asceticism. 

92 Simultaneously with the presentation of this play, a burlesque operetta was 
produced with great success at Petrograd, under the name Life of Man Inside Out , 


126 Leonid Andreyev 

theatre, where even the soldiers of the Red Army are impelled 
to behave as though they were in a temple. The directors evi¬ 
dently hesitated a bit before consenting to present, in 1914, An¬ 
dreyev’s Thought, for fear that its lugubriousness would pro¬ 
voke a fresh protest on the part of the public, which was prone 
to trust in the assurances of the popular press that all was well 
in Russia. Andreyev found himself forced to plead for this 
play. He wrote to Nemirovich-Danchenko (probably in the 
spring of 1914) : “As to the gloom of Thought, and the pos¬ 
sibility of reproaches for its tone, I am not going to assure you 
that this is quite impossible: anything can happen with us these 
days. . . . An idea has become imbedded in many heads, like an 
oaken stake, about a certain vigor and joy of life filling our 
present days, but wherein this vigor and joy are manifested the 
vehement optimists themselves do not know. I may say even 
more: if you try to give the public what it demands, it will leave 
you. For all those externally vivacious writings [of the pro¬ 
testing optimists] are in substance most melancholy and hope¬ 
less. That is gloomy which is without talent and labored.” 

Thought was presented at the Moscow Art Theatre, but it 
was the last of Andreyev’s plays to be produced there. The 
playwright was presumably aware of the fact that his embraces 
were not altogether salutary for the success of his beloved thea¬ 
tre, as one may judge from a letter of his to the same director, 
in which he urged him to stage Alexander Blok’s dramas: “I 
am dangerous at present for your theatre, in view of my cruel 
talent and my cruel reputation, while Blok will prove the exact 
opposite for you. He seems to be the only artist who has ab¬ 
solutely no enemies, who is loved by all dreamily and tenderly, 
as he loves his ‘Fair Unknown.’ Behold one who is in the high¬ 
est degree artistically pure, proud, and untouched.” 93 

It is characteristic that Andreyev should have recommended 
Blok. Andreyev disliked heartily the Russian Decadents and 
Symbolists, but though Blok was one of the most prominent 
Symbolists, Andreyev felt a certain nostalgia for the singer of 
the “Fair Unknown,” and even, according to G, Chulkov, knew 

•* Probably written in 1914. 


127 


Maturity and Solitude 

some of his poems by heart. 94 In his reminiscences, Blok de¬ 
scribes his two uneventful meetings with Andreyev, one of them 
at the latter’s Petrograd residence, where he found “a large 
number of people, nearly all writers, many of them celebrities 
. . . With no bond between one another, they were separated 
by black gaps . . . and the remotest of them all, the loneliest 
of all, was Leonid Andreyev. The more amiable and kindly 
he appeared as a host, the lonelier he was.” 95 Though the two 
men never became close to one another, they felt a mutual sym¬ 
pathy. Chaos called unto chaos, to paraphrase Blok’s words. 
They were both pathetically lonely amidst their colleagues, and 
both felt that Russia, far from being well, was on the eve of a 
catastrophic bankruptcy of its institutions and ideals. Andre¬ 
yev expressed this feeling in his “unpopular” plays, Blok voiced 
his presentiment in some of his mystic lectures before the “Phil¬ 
osophic Society” at Petrograd. The pathos of the sympathy 
between the two lonely writers was the more poignant, because 
they failed to bridge the “black gap,” and died in solitude, with¬ 
out having clasped hands in mutual understanding. 

Becoming ever more solitary and ever more misunderstood, 
Andreyev occasionally gave vent to his bitterness. “What 
have they written about me!” he exclaims in a letter to 
Goloushev. “It is both laughable and somehow shameful; and 
when you realize that this is Russia, that such is the intellectual 
metropolitan press, you become bitter and horrified. Altogether 
it is frightful. Where are men? This question sounds now 
everywhere, and there is no answer.” 96 He felt that his voice 
resembled a call in the wilderness, unheeded and not understood, 
considered out of place and out of time, and yet he was con¬ 
vinced that his was the true and needed voice, merciless and un¬ 
sweetened. Impatient with the prevalent misinterpretations of 
his point of view, he once defined it with cavalier brusqueness, 
in a letter to the same Goloushev: “The whole substance of 
me consists in that I do not accept the world as it was handed to 

94 A Book on Andreyev, p. 71. 

95 Ibid., p. 57. 

96 October 19, 1915. 


128 Leonid Andreyev 

me by my tutors and teachers, but in the most restless fashion 
I question it, dig into it, scrape it, turn it around and upside 
down, examine it not only from prescribed directions but also 
from its posterior. And while I am enthusiastic about the 
world’s face, I turn my nose away from its foul posterior. 
This is all there is to my simple mechanism.” 97 

In his growing isolation Andreyev turned again and again to 
the Moscow Art Theatre, making desperate attempts to retain 
his bond with the only artistic stronghold which he respected 
and which had the power to stimulate his creative life. His 
plays and playlets, produced at various theatres of both metrop¬ 
olises and in the provinces, before and during the war, meant 
but little to their author. In his intimate letters and in his 
diary he spoke slightingly both of those plays and of the manner 
of their execution. It was the Moscow Art Theatre that he 
craved, as a salvation and as an incentive. In his letters to 
Nemirovich-Danchenko he poured out his aching heart; he 
pleaded and fought, admonished and exhorted, appealed and de¬ 
manded, firmly convinced that in championing his own case he 
was prompted by no other motive than the yearning after an 
art fearless and independent. He grieved over the fact that 
his favorite theatre continued to produce such of his harmless 
things as Days of Our Life, while his big dramas remained un¬ 
der the ban. For nearly four years (from the end of 1914) he 
argued with this theatre in favor of presenting his last two 
plays, The Waltz of the Dogs and Samson Enchained, receiv¬ 
ing evasive answers which aggravated him exceedingly by their 
hesitating tone and indecision. “Concerning The Waltz of the 
Dogs and Samson Enchained —I fail to understand you,” he 
wrote on one of these numerous occasions. y ou say: another 
challenge to the public, another battle. But why have calm? 
Don’t 1 Do have challenges, battles.” And he reminded Dan¬ 
chenko that years before he, Andreyev, had reproached the 
Moscow Art Theatre for being a “theatre of spiritual calm. 
He rejected the argument that in time of war the public was not 
inclined to listen to “remote” subjects. On the contrary, to An- 
About the same time, 


Maturity and Solitude 129 

dreyev the war augured a revival of heroic aspirations and noble 
sentiments, rendering tragedy timely and desired. The follow¬ 
ing extracts are valuable for the understanding of Andreyev’s 
state of mind early in the war (September 1, 1914) : 

As yet I do not know whether I am right or mistaken, but it seems 
to me that things are coming my way. I have in mind tragedy, which is 
inevitably destined to revive. See how sweeping is the gesture of the 
events, in what a pose the nations place themselves, hear how pathetically 
the cannon declaim! Small, intimate, local drama, with its parochial 
morality and parochial philosophy, the purely native drama—of what use 
is it now? For whom? The hero, the heroic in masses and in the indi¬ 
vidual, broad strokes and extreme stylization, the loudest words and the 
most risky poses, clarion blasts, hymns, miracles and revelations, Sinai and 
Sabaoth—this is our present and this will be our future for a good 
decade. . . . 

Believe me: Now is the time for you to stage tragedy . . . Down 
with Days of Our Life and its like ... and long live Lorenzo [of The 
Black Maskers ], Anathema, The Ocean, The Life of Man, and others 
yet unborn ... I am jesting, but earnestly: aside from anything else, 
the war makes my heart rejoice because of the resurrection of the tragic 
in literature—in which I revive myself. The last five years have been 
so sad for me, because my feeling of life’s tragicness collided daily with 
the triumphant dramatization of life, my scale of a hundred miles to the 
inch appeared unsuitable for the short pedestrian paths, loopholes and 
moleholes, and with every day I felt myself to be more and more super¬ 
fluous. . . . 

At this stage of the war Andreyev was still enthusiastic and 
hopeful—we shall speak of this period presently. He wished 
the Moscow Art Theatre to rise with him, to share his passion 
for tragedy, and he was deeply wounded when that theatre pro¬ 
ceeded to run such taffy “successes” as Surguchev’s Autumn Vio¬ 
lins or his own “proper” plays. “You may present a thousand 
times Days of Our Life and Anfisa,” he protested (August 27, 
1914), but in not producing Anathema, in having forgotten The 
Life of Man, in spurning The Black Maskers, and in passing 
indifferently by The Ocean, you have sentenced me to death, 
you have left me my body, while my soul you have thrown over- 


!30 Leonid Andreyev 

board.” Still he believed in the approaching recognition of his 
point of view and was full of plans for new tragedies. He con¬ 
cludes this letter: “And now I am going to the graveyard 
where are buried my unborn children: The Revolution, Peace 
and War, Nebuchadnezzar, Ahasuerus, Samson and I shout: 
‘Arise, children! We are summoned.’ ” But as the war pro¬ 
gressed, Andreyev became convinced that arms and the Muses 
are poor bedfellows. Of all his projected works he accom¬ 
plished only Samson, and that he had practically completed in 
January, 1914; it has not yet been published or produced. His 
other “children” remained unborn. The encouragement he 
craved and wanted so urgently did not come forth. One may 
feel his impotent bitterness in the semi-jocular passage of his 
letter to Nemirovich-Danchenko, written presumably in Janu¬ 
ary, 1916: “My position is woeful. I am approaching my 
jubilee, and still am at a loss where to have my works produced. 
I write a play, and gaze at it as a ram at new gates: ‘For what 
good have you come into the world?’ If I had money, I should 
buy me a portfolio and deposit my manuscripts therein. Rest 

in peace, dear dust . . . . 

Thus ends the period of Andreyev’s artistic maturity—in ut¬ 
ter solitude, weariness, and impotence. 


V 

WAR, REVOLUTION AND DEATH 


Two aspects of Andreyev’s attitude toward the war.—Public acceptance 
of it.—Journalism.— King, Law, Liberty.—Wars Burden. — 
General enthusiasm.—Andreyev’s illness, depression, material 
want, craving for an illusion.—War—Autocracy’s doom.—Mili¬ 
tary nature of the March revolution.—Andreyev’s hopes for 
war’s results.—Predominance of gray soldiers.—Extremism of 
the masses.—Breakdown of fighting spirit and discipline. 
Andreyev’s disgust and dark prophecy.—Elected member of 
Pre-Parliament.—Bolshevik victory.—Andreyev’s uncompromis¬ 
ing opposition.— S. O. S. —Last trip to Petrograd. His mother 
and his letter to her.—Retrospection.—Self-humiliation.—An¬ 
dreyev portrayed by Roerich.—Work on Satan s Diary. 
1919. —About Gorky.—Eager to head anti-Bolshevik propa¬ 
ganda.—Letters to Gessen.—State of mind and body.—Spurned 
by Whites.—Projected trip to America.—“Three roads. ’ 
“Threefold exile.”—Disgust and despondency.—Bracing effect 
of nature.—Death of Man.—Last utterance. 

The war found Andreyev in a state of depression and of 
gloomy forebodings. 1 It wrought a notable change in his 
mood, causing his dimmed spirit to flare up, for a time, with 
dazzling enthusiasm of faith in men and in ideals. Outwardly 
Andreyev presented the aspect of a man who had been con¬ 
verted for the first time in his life to a positive belief, which he 
expressed and championed with unreserved ardor. Inwardly 
he was being devoured by the poisonous worm of doubt and diffi¬ 
dence. Before discussing both these aspects, we must note that 

1 According to Mme. Andreyev, her husband had a presentiment of the oncom¬ 
ing events. He usually mapped out in advance a year’s work, travel, and other 
plans. But in 1914 he found himself unable to plan ahead. When pressed for 
a reason, he muttered darkly: “It is hard for me to speak now. I feel nothing 
but gloom in the future.” 

131 


132 Leonid Andreyev 

Andreyev’s artistic activity ended with the war, hence the events 
of the war and the revolution will be treated in this part of the 
essay, in connection with his biography proper. The preceding 
political and social occurrences, such as the war with Japan, the 
revolution of 1905, terroristic acts, labor upheavals, waves of 
banditism and others, were reflected in one way or another in 
Andreyev’s stories and plays, and will therefore be discussed 
along with the author’s art. His productions after the fall of 
1914 can hardly be ranked as art, a bitter truth which he him¬ 
self admitted in a letter to Roerich. 2 The background of his 
last years should therefore be presented at this juncture. 

In the same measure as the war with Japan, in 1904-1905, 
had been unpopular in Russia, the war against Germany was in 
the beginning—before the manifestation of the criminal mis¬ 
management and corruption of the military and civil authorities 
—popular and stimulating. It appealed as a conflict of ideas, 
and of course there was no doubt in the minds of either side as 
to which ideas were right and just. Leonid Andreyev, skeptic 
and misanthrope, author of the Red Laugh, shared the fate of 
his European fellow writers who were engulfed by the mighty 
wave of patriotism. Jolted out of his social apathy by the 
formidable events, Andreyev unreservedly dedicated his pen to 
what appeared to him the cause of justice and humanity. The 
spectacle of the greater portion of the civilized world taking up 
arms in the name of high principles, possesses the irresistible ef¬ 
fect of an elemental hurricane which sweeps away one’s doubts 
and misgivings, and fans one’s faith in man and in ideals, how¬ 
ever faint that faith may have become. At such a time one’s 
analytical faculty grows blunt, one is apt to become credulous, to 
indulge in exaggerations, in journalistic generalities. And if 
this state of mind be a weakness, it is one which brings, at the 
time, such men as Anatole France nearer to the heart of human¬ 
ity than those who, like Romain Rolland, preserve the strength 
to remain au-dessus de la melee . Andreyev proved to be merely 
human, impressionable and inconsistent. To the correspondent 
of the London Daily Chronicle he expressed his attitude early 

2 Infra, p. 173- 


War, Revolution, Death 133 

in the war, in an interview from which the following lines are 
quoted: 

Though I am opposed to war on principle, and regard bloodshed with 
horror, I welcome war with Germany as necessary. This is a war for 
the soul, for spiritual liberty. The Germans are not murderers of the 
body; they are, to use a Russian expression, killers of the soul. . . . 

If Germany wins, the future of Russia will be dark and terrible. The 
reactionary forces of Russia have always been at once fostered and de¬ 
spised by Germany. If Germany be defeated, Russia will, I am con¬ 
vinced, enter upon a path of political and social progress on which the 
nation’s heart has long been set. . . . Russia must win at any cost, and 
in the effort to obtain victory the people and the government must be 
absolutely united . 3 

Andreyev wrote numerous articles during the war, hardly any 
of which will survive the teeth of time, despite their forceful 
style and effectiveness for propaganda purposes. Neither can 
one rank as art his play, King, Law, Liberty, which appeared 
late in 1914, or his nouvelle, War’s Burden, published in 1915* 
The play depicted the tragedy of Belgium, a tragedy which was 
too close at hand for adequate treatment . 4 The treacherous in¬ 
vasion of Belgium, the destruction of Belgian universities and 
libraries, the inhuman atrocities of the German troops—these 
and similar horrors were at that time presented through one- 

3 The New York Times, September 16, i 9 * 4 > P- *• 

4 Andreyev had his misgivings about this play. On August 27, 1914, he wrote 
to Nemirovich-Danchenko: “I intend to write a play—whose heroes are, sub 
rosa, Maeterlinck, Vandervelde, and others. . . . Naturally, it is far from a patri¬ 
otic mauvais ton, but rather something like a ‘dramatic chronicle of the war. . . . 
To be sure, the present cannot serve as material for a purely artistic work, but it 
seems to me that by enacting the play in Belgium I shall lend it the distance which 
must separate the spectator from the stage. ... I have hesitated a long time, but 
the fact is that I am somewhat ashamed to be ambiguous, while for purely artistic 
work I lack both the calm and the perspective.” Andreyev used no such apologetic 
tone about his earlier productions. One feels a lack of self-confidence also in his 
letter written to the same friend somewhat later (October 13) when the play had 
been realized. “Dear Vladimir Ivanovich, do go over to the Dramatic Theatre. 

I have attempted to develop a current theme in accordance with the princi¬ 
ples of psychism, and it seems to me that I have succeeded in solving a difficult 
task. . . .” Less than four years later (April, 1918) Andreyev admitted in his diary 
that both that play and War's Burden were “weak things . . . presenting in sub¬ 
stance poor publicist stuff.” 


134 Leonid Andreyev 

sided information, of necessity biased. Consequently, when 
Andreyev repeated these themes in his play, he left the impres¬ 
sion that he was an editorial writer for Allied propaganda. 
This, despite the fact that the plot in itself was very dramatic, 
presenting the decision of the King and the celebrated Belgian 
writer, Grelieu (who obviously stood for Maeterlinck), to de¬ 
stroy the dams, and thus to flood the country and drown the in¬ 
vaders. In normal times the author might have produced a 
masterpiece out of this subject. But inter arma silent musa. 
In the fall of 1914 Andreyev the artist succumbed to Andreyev 
the journalist, of the Courier tradition, hence his play bore the 
stamp of “war literature.” On one hand the unreal, maudlin 
Maurice, unable to comprehend how the Germans can be so 
cruel as to hang snipers; on the other hand German officers, as 
unreal as Maurice, though corresponding to the conception of 
them popular among the masses of the Allies. Blumenfeld 
speaks of the Commander: 

He has a German philosophical mind which manages guns as Leibnitz 
managed ideas. Everything is preconceived, everything is prearranged, 
the movement of our millions of people has been elaborated into such a 
remarkable system that Kant himself would have been proud of it. Gen¬ 
tlemen, we are led forward by indomitable logic and by an iron will. 
We are inexorable as Fate. 5 

This concoction is met by Blumenfeld’s colleagues with shouts 
of “bravo.” During the war it did not require much courage 
or originality to drag into the current issues some of the great 
German thinkers, and to link them with the war. Blumenfeld 
appears bookish, or rather journalistic, a hero of the Sunday 
supplement of an American newspaper. In real life one hardly 
encounters a German officer philosophizing on the uselessness of 
sleep, on the folly of paying heed to one’s organism, on the in¬ 
domitable power of will. 

War’s Burden barely misses being one of Andreyev’s best 
stories. The diary of an average Russian paterfamilias, the 

6 Works — XVII, p. 165. 


135 


War, Revolution, Death 

evolution of his reactions to the war, his selfish resentment to 
the hardships inflicted on the civilian population, the gradual 
broadening of his outlook, his nascent patriotism and altruism, 
his final reconciliation with life “according to Schopenhauer”— 
this theme is developed by Andreyev in his early realistic style. 
The type, an ordinary clerk, resembles the hero of Dostoyev¬ 
sky’s Poor Folk in his mode of reasoning and his excessive senti¬ 
mentality. What detracts from the value of the story, what 
renders it journalese, is its surcharge of current events. There 
are pages and pages of accounts taken from newspapers, per¬ 
taining to the victories and defeats of the Russian armies, to the 
sessions of the Duma, massacres of Armenians, high cost of 
living and other facts of the war. This element forms such a 
heavy ballast in the story that one is forced to relegate it to 
the limbo of “war literature.” 

In his enthusiasm for the war Andreyev voiced the sentiment 
of the Intelligentsia. In July, 1914, there were barricades on 
the streets of Petrograd, a revolution seemed inevitable, 6 but 
Germany’s declaration of war deflected public opinion from in¬ 
ternal questions to the grave problem of the defense of the 
country from foreign aggressors. The war with Germany was 
as popular in Russia as the war against Napoleon in 1812. 
Forgotten were party dissensions and class antagonism and the 
general opposition to the Government, in the united resolve to 
defeat the enemy. With the exception of a small group of de¬ 
featists living abroad, like Lenin and Trotsky, the Russian pub¬ 
lic was practically unanimous in championing the cause of the 
Allies. Such implacable fighters of Tsarism as Kropotkin and 
Plekhanov were as enthusiastic in their support of the war as 
were such reactionaries as Purishkevich and Bobrinsky, such 
conservatives as Guchkov and Stakhovich, such liberals as Mil- 
yukov and Rodichev, such radicals as Yablonovsky and Yordan- 
sky, such mystics as Bulgakov and Merezhkovsky, such aesthetes 
as Balmont and Bryusov, such solipsists as Sologub and Kuzmin, 

6 A. Kaun, Russia under Nicolas II, supplement to Kornilov’s Modern Russian 
History—II, pp. 337 “ 338 - New York, 1917. 


136 Leonid Andreyev 

even such extreme futurists as Igor Severyanin. Germany, 
and particularly Prussia, symbolized for Russia everything des¬ 
potic and reactionary. While the Russian imperialists saw in 
the war a means for defeating a rival imperialism, to the ma¬ 
jority of the Russian people the war appeared as a crusade 
against the stronghold of European militarism and oppression, 
with the removal of which Russia’s own despotic rule would 
inevitably give place to a more progressive form of govern¬ 
ment. 7 The alliance with the foremost democracies of Europe, 
England and France, was in itself a pledge for a better political 
future. Carried away by this sentiment, Andreyev went so far 
as to say in a public statement: “If the German be our enemy, 
then the war is necessary; if the Englishman and the Frenchman 
be our friends and allies, then this war is good, and its purpose 
is good. 8 

And here is the other side of the medal. On April 13, 1918, 
Andreyev registered in his diary the following significant lines: 

The poisoning of my soul began with the war. The very fact of my 
accepting it, that is, of my transferring it from the all-human plane to 
the field of “fatherland” and politics, was due probably to the simple 
instinct of self-preservation. Otherwise the war would have remained 
tor me only a “red laugh,” and I should inevitably and before long have 
lost my reason. This danger of losing my reason existed for me through¬ 
out the war, and at times I felt it terribly. I fought this menace by way 
of publicistic writings'. My two weak things, King and Wars Burden, 
were weak precisely because (especially the latter) they presented in sub¬ 
stance poor publicistic stuff. I had to live without going mad. 

’Tis curious how I, half-consciously, restrained my imagination from 
picturing the essence of the war. This was a very difficult task, because 
my imagination is unrestrainable—it has been so all my life. Well-nigh 
independent, it subordinated both my thoughts and my will and my de¬ 
sires, and it was particularly strong in presenting pictures of horror, 

7 Deputy Kerensky of the fourth Duma, representing the socialistic Labor group 
which refused to vote for the war budget at the declaration of the war, said in a 
speech on that occasion: “Peasants and workmen, all who desire the happiness 
and well-being of Russia in these days of trial, harden your spirit! Gather all 
your strength, and, having defended your land, free it.”— Ibid., p. 340, quoted from 
W. E. Walling’s The Socialists and the War, pp. 192, 193. 

s lbid., p. 346. 


137 


War, Revolution, Death 

pain, suffering, of the sudden and the fatal. I do not know how I man¬ 
aged it, but I actually succeeded in putting a bridle on my imagination, 
and rendering it in regard to the war purely formal, almost semi-official, 
not going beyond governmental communications and newspaper rubbish. 

But this was only half a salvation, preventing me from sinking at once 
into the dusk of chaos. For alongside the upper, governmental imagina¬ 
tion, reduced to strict semi-official limits, there worked my secret (there 
is such a thing) underground imagination. And while on the main floor 
Allied hymns were played pompously and with decorum, down in the 
cellar something dark and terrible was going on. Thither were driven 
“madness and horror,” and there they are abiding unto this day. And 
from there they are sending through my whole body these deathly poisons, 
these dizzy headaches, these piercing heartaches, this yellow sluggish virus 
which suffuses my organism so heavily and painfully. I have captured a 
devil, swallowed him, and he stays in me—alive. 

These lines help to explain the paradox of Andreyev the 
doubter and denier, the perpetual prosecutor and disparager, 
turning vehement war propagandist. They suggest that the 
“virus” found a ready soil in Andreyev. His organism weak¬ 
ened, his spirit lustreless, he became susceptible to infectious 
microbes. During his active period he possessed the clear eye 
which could “see through” the popular nostrums, and the strong 
mind which rejected flimsy beliefs and thin panaceas., in face 
of unpopularity, opposition, and isolation. But by the latter 
half of 1914 Andreyev presented a fountain with its reservoir 
practically drained. His talent, however robust, had fed 
largely and rather extravagantly on his inner flame, which was 
by no means inexhaustible, and required fanning and nursing. 
The lack of response to his tragic notes, which was becoming 
ever more nearly general, gradually affected his energy and vital¬ 
ity, generating in him a sense of futility and impotence. After 
Samson Enchained, his last brilliant flash, Andreyev became 
artistically dumb, powerless to bring forth the ambitious ideas 
which had nestled in his mind awaiting the creative summons. 
With the atrophy of his creative faculty—that is, of the very 
essence of his being—began his rapid decay and disintegration, 
a process which Andreyev endeavored to check by desperate at- 


138 Leonid Andreyev 

tempts at calling forth fresh illusions and clinging to them. 
Such an illusion was the war. 

The diary entry quoted on pp. 136-137 illustrates amply An¬ 
dreyev’s mental and physical state during his last years. Coupled 
with the strain of his mind to preserve its balance, there were his 
bodily ailments. His strong organism finally began to give way 
under the combined stress of spiritual chagrin and physical over¬ 
exertion. One must remember his abnormal mode of living, 
his actively wakeful nights, his constant restlessness, his regular 
insomnia which Mme. Andreyev tried in vain to conquer by 
reading to him adventure stories. His letters usually contained 
some reference to his poor heart and wretched head. “My ill 
health,” he wrote to Goloushev in January, 1916, “binds my 
hands. I am in need of money, and I have an offer to deliver 
eleven lectures for ten thousand rubles. Yet I cannot accept it: 
how can I with such a head!” The material problem rose in 
importance with the decline of the author’s artistic power: he 
now wished to believe that with material independence he might 
resurrect his talent, might build “an Andreyev theatre, with its 
own public and its own order,” as he whimsically threatened the 
Moscow Art Theatre in a letter (September, 1916). One can 
understand why he could not resist the temptation of joining 
the editorial staff of Russia’s Will (Russkaya Volya), a large 
Petrograd daily founded in 1916 with a patriotic eclat, but sus¬ 
pected by a large part of the public as an organ of Protopopov, 
the Rasputin-made minister of interior. Braving scandal and 
calumny, Andreyev lent his name to the paper, taking charge of 
its departments of fiction, stage and criticism, at the salary of 
thirty-six thousand a year, beside fifteen hundred per printed 
sheet. Andreyev emphasized these details in a letter to Golou¬ 
shev (June 26, 1916), adding: “This is important for me, 
because earning a sure and ‘quiet’ fifty thousand a year I shall 
be able to write plays without the need of producing them, I 
shall become independent of the market, of fussy critics, and 
the publishers’ will.” He gave still another reason for taking 
this step, a few months previous, writing to the same friend 
(September 7, 1915) : “But my main purpose is—to become 


139 


War, Revolution, Death 

intoxicated with work, and to escape from the cursed reality, 
at least for a time.” After having actually joined the paper, 
he wrote to Goloushev (June, 1916) in the same vein: “All 
these last years I have been oppressed by idleness, I have burned 
within myself, invisibly for others, like that perfected stove 
which consumes its own smoke, not letting it out. . . . My very 
illness was due mainly to idleness; now I am going to be 
well.” 

Within a few months Andreyev became disillusioned as to the 
salutary effect of the newspaper work, since he had discovered 
that the fire of the war, which he expected to purge the public 
and lift it to the heights of tragedy, proved a will-o’-the-wisp. 
In the first place, he was forced to forego his secluded regime, 
and to settle in Petrograd. The work itself demanded all his 
time, ruining his health, and extinguishing in journalistic drudg¬ 
ery the last flashes of his talent. Lastly, he found himself in 
uncongenial company, with the independence of his views jeop¬ 
ardized. How he suffocated in that atmosphere was evident 
from the new pet illusion about which he began to dream—an 
escape to the “south,” of which he wrote frequently in his letters 
during the fall of 1916. “I yearn for south, south, south— 
passionately, unutterably,” he wrote in November of that year 
(presumably to Nemirovich-Danchenko), “yet the south is so 
remote from us! To think that I shall never find myself in Los 
Angeles, whence I once received a graceful letter from a Span¬ 
ish lady. Los Angeles, Brazil, Cuba, Jamaica, Porto Rico, 
Ceylon, Celebes, Java, Indo-China . . .” Again, as in his 
high-school days, he hated his stifling environment, and longed 
for romantic distances, or rather romantic names, like Los An¬ 
geles. His newspaper office oppressed him as much as his gym¬ 
nasium classroom had done years before, as we may judge from 
his letter to Goloushev( ?) (the same month) : “But above all 
else—it is dreary, because of the lack of sun, fog, slush, dark¬ 
ness. I crave devilishly for the south, for the tropics, palms 
and darkies, for sea and expanse, for air and light. Here— 
the electric light begins to burn in the early morning, and con¬ 
tinues to burn till the next morning.” Fatigue and headaches 


140 Leonid Andreyev 

were other invariable motives of his letters at that time. Yet 
in spite of weariness, sickness and disgust with his surroundings, 
Andreyev forced himself to manufacture a play, Dear Phan¬ 
toms, with the young Dostoyevsky as its central character. “I 
am writing with the speed of lightning,” he informed Go- 
loushev. “Three acts in two sittings. I should have finished 
the play in two days if I had the time, if it were not for editorial 
meetings, or mother’s birthday celebration, or crowds of vis¬ 
itors. Of course I can write only at night. ... It goes with¬ 
out saying that the play is only forty-six per cent decent, not 
more.” This attitude toward his production was a sure sign 
of the author’s decline. Even more outspoken was his letter 
about the same time to Nemirovich-Danchenko, in connection 
with his Dear Phantoms: “As I have told you, I desire to 
earn some money through this play, in order that I may remain 
on the free path of a writer. . . . The newspaper is an unstable 
affair: a divergence in point of view may throw me overboard. 
I must make my material dependence on the newspaper as slight 
as possible. This is the main reason why I have worked on 
my play so stubbornly and perseveringly, overcoming sickness 
and fatigue.” In admitting this motive for writing the play, 
Andreyev transgressed the first “thou shalt not” of Tolstoy’s 
tetralogue, 9 and thereby doomed his work to insignificance. 
About two months after its presentation Andreyev in a letter to 
Goloushev (January, 1917) dubbed it “nonsense and rubbish.” 
The success of the play was only partial; it was considered “out 
of time.” Skitalets was present at its first production, in the 
Imperial Alexandrine Theatre, and thus describes his impres¬ 
sions : 

I felt that the public received indifferently this fine play, which was, 
however, inopportune. ... 

“Friends and admirers” had arranged a false success. They prepared 
numerous laurel wreaths of enormous dimensions, called for the author, 
and in a body presented them to him. There were applause and shouts 
of Bravo, but one felt in the air the cold atmosphere of indifference. An¬ 
dreyev himself, in his black blouse, wasted and exhausted, seemed to feel 

9 Supra, p. 89 ff. 


War, Revolution, Death 141 

it, when with a sad and diffident face he stood amidst these funereal 
wreaths, so to speak, on the brilliantly illuminated stage, stood motionless 
and also like a dear phantom of the irretrievable past. . . . 10 

Disappointed in the war and in its effects on mankind, broken 
in spirit and in body, Andreyev wearily dragged his shell down 
the sloping path. “Ah, I am so tired,” he wrote in January, 
1917, to Goloushev, a mediocre writer but a warm and constant 
friend. “It is difficult even to imagine how unwell I am . . . 
Yet I have so many big plans! Precisely—big: the pettiness 
and vanity of my surroundings generates, as an antithesis, a 
striving for great themes and for great men.” But this ambi¬ 
tion was like the effort of a wounded bird to flap its wings. In 
the same letter Andreyev cried out in a Galgenhumor: “Ser¬ 
yozha, let us buy for a poltinnik [half a ruble] some carbolic 
acid and drink it!” His personal disintegration was accompa¬ 
nied by a premonition of the catastrophic events which were to 
befall Russia in the near future. Thus in a letter dated No¬ 
vember 16, 1916, he wrote: “A sweeping current, dragging 
us through whirlpools, carries us toward a precipice, an abyss, 
a smoking chaos, where everything is wild, dark, and formless.” 
In March, 1917, Russia was in the grip of a revolution. 

Consciously or unconsciously, the Intelligentsia supported the 
war because it foredoomed the autocratic regime. In a war 
which augured victory for the more highly developed technical 
skill, for the more adequately organized industry and transpor¬ 
tation, for the more efficient and honest government, there was 
hardly a chance for official Russia, corrupt, lackadaisical, igno¬ 
rant, in charge of a loose-jointed empire, with its industry in the 
state of infancy, its agriculture archaic, its means of transporta¬ 
tion utterly inadequate, its army up-to-date and ideally equipped 

_on paper only. 11 By the end of February, 1917, Russia had 

been tested and found obsolete, corrupt, and rotten to the core. 
The overthrow of the tsar was not so much a revolution as the 
painless death of a thing which had been long lifeless, but went 
on existing by artificial means. One of the artificial props of 

10 Russia’s Voice, February 21, 1922. 

11 Russia under Nicolas II, p. 348. 


142 Leonid Andreyev 

the autocracy had been the rigidly disciplined, unthinking army 
led by loyal servants of the throne. The years 1915—1916 con¬ 
firmed in the minds of the Russian military leaders the necessity 
of removing the incapable monarch, for the sake of a victory 
for the Allies. In March, 1917, the army commanders not 
only did not attempt to quell the popular unrest, but supported 
the demand of the party leaders for the abdication of Nicolas 
II. 12 The practically bloodless liberation of the country from 
the yoke of the Romanovs was accomplished with the active 
connivance of the army, and largely in the name of carrying 
on the war more efficiently and to a victorious end. That this 
was the immediate aim of the revolution, appeared to be the 
opinion of the majority of the political leaders who voiced it 
in their speeches, in the declaration of the Provisional Govern¬ 
ment, in the notes of Foreign Minister Milyukov to the Allied 
Powers. The army was flattered and feared, the army was 
idealized and hosannahed, the army was regarded as the savior 
of Russia, of Europe, of the world. Andreyev, revived by the 
violent shock of the revolution, voiced this sentiment in his en¬ 
thusiastic statement to a Reuter representative: 

It is all too manifest that the brilliant and decisive victory over the 
autocracy could not have been won except with our Russian army . . . 
Until the great day of March 9, our army had at least the outer form of 
troops whipped into shape by the inexorable laws of the military code, 
but to-day it is an army of volunteers defending with guns its liberty and 
rights. ... In the first days of the war ... I put down in my diary 
the following words: “They call it ‘war,’ but it really means revolution. 
In its logical evolution this ‘war’ will bring the downfall of the Romanovs 
and will end not in the ordinary way of previous wars, but in a European 
upheaval. This upheaval will bring in its wake the destruction of mili¬ 
tarism [and of] permanent armies, and the creation of the United States 

12 Numerous memoirs by generals and politicians of the old regime substantiate 
this statement. Professor P. N. Milyukov in his historical account of the revolu¬ 
tion tells of the assent of General Alexeyev, Chief of Staff, and of the Command- 
ers-in-Chief, Generals Russky and Brusilov, to uphold the stand of President Rod- 
zianko of the Duma and of the delegation of the Provisional Committee which 
came to demand the abdication of the tsar.—P. N. Milyukov, History of the Second 
Russian Revolution (lstoriia vtoroy russkoy revolutsii) t v. I, part 1, p. 50. Sofia, 
1921. 


143 


War, Revolution, Death 

of Europe. . . . The day is not distant when the house of Hohenzollern 
will collapse, and peace will be concluded by free peoples on terms of 
liberty, equality and fraternity. After that day there will come more dis¬ 
tant and still brighter days, when all Europe, having purged itself clean 
of blood, will become one brotherhood, and on the ruins of the old cities, 
monarchies, castes and privileges, there will be built a new and free hu¬ 
manity.” 

We are through with the military from this day. We only have an 
armed Russian people, which is accomplishing its mission of defense of 
the country’s liberties. Once its work is done, it will don its civilian 
clothes. After that it will cease to be an army once and for all, if 
human wisdom and consciousness will permit. Build wooden barracks— 
we only want such for our temporarily armed and fighting citizens, so 
that we can easily remove them. Do not build stone barracks, those jails 
of militarism, the permanent bulwarks of the soldiery, the eternal dis¬ 
pensers of dissolution and blood.” 13 

In 1923 Andreyev’s enthusiasm and faith sound pathetic, but 
in those days they were shared by many, and not only in Rus¬ 
sia. One wished to believe in the purgative value of the war, 
in its hygienic effect, in its being a war to end war, in its enno¬ 
bling consequences. How else could one explain and atone for 
the array of a score of millions of human beings for mutual 
slaughter! And the wish generated the thought. Andreyev, 
in dire need of a fresh illusion, shared the wish of the Russian 
liberals and moderate socialists that the spring revolution of 
1917 would serve primarily the purpose of a more vigorous and 
efficient campaign against the Central Powers, in the name of 
the high principles expressed in Andreyev’s flowery statement 
quoted above. Hence he, the author of Thus It Was, Judas, 
Savva and other works illustrating the stupidity, brutality and 
cowardice of the masses, felt now impelled to idealize the gray 
mass of the soldiers, to endow them with conscious bravery and 
intelligence, to sublimate them into free individuals voluntarily 
sacrificing their lives in the name of democracy. Under this 
impulsion Andreyev wrote his propaganda articles, 14 which coin- 

13 The New York Times, August 5, 1917 (Magazine Section). 

14 a dispatch to the New York Times for April 28, 1917, page 1, states: “An¬ 
dreyev has been enlisted by the Provisional Government as a writer of propa- 


144 Leonid Andreyev 

cided in the main with the oratory of the fiery Kerensky bn his 
indefatigable trips to the front. 

That the flattery of the soldier contained a considerable ele¬ 
ment of fear is obvious. When one reads the multitudinous 
memoirs of the men who took active part in the events of those 
days, military officers and civilians alike, one invariably gains 
the impression that a gigantic bluff was being carried on con¬ 
sciously and unconsciously by the Russian patriots in their at¬ 
titude to the Army. One of these sources, which may be used 
with confidence, is the book of Reminiscences by V. B. Stanke- 
vich, 15 a scholarly jurist who volunteered early in the war, and 
served as an officer throughout the war and the revolution. 
Mr. Stankevich had been the secretary of the Labor group in 
the Duma, to which belonged Kerensky, and remained the lat¬ 
ter’s friend and assistant to the very end. His book has been 
quoted both by conservatives and by radicals as one of the few 
authentic accounts and profound analyses of the revolution. It 
is a disillusioning book for those who picture the early stage of 
the revolution in the romantic halo of universal brotherhood 
and voluntary cooperation among all classes of the population 
in the name of the sacred cause. According to Stankevich, the 
soldiery was felt from the outset to be the inexorable master 
of the situation, a master to be feared and appeased: 

Officially they celebrated, glorified the revolution, shouted Hurrah to 
the fighters for liberty, adorned themselves with red ribbons, and marched 
under red banners. . . . Ladies established feeding stations for soldiers. 
Everybody said, “we,” “our” revolution, “our” victory, and “our” liberty. 
But in their hearts, in intimate conversations—they were terrified, they 
quaked, they felt themselves captives of a hostile element rushing in some 
unknown direction. The bourgeois circles of the Duma, which in fact 
had created the atmosphere that provoked the explosion, were utterly un¬ 
prepared for “such” an explosion. 16 Unforgettable is the figure of Rod- 

ganda.” Mme. Andreyev wrote me that some of his articles were circulated “in 
millions of copies.” At the same time he continued to contribute regularly to 
Russia’s Will, until the advent of the Bolsheviki. 

15 Fospominaniya, Berlin, 1920. 

16 See supra, p. 142 ff. The “Progressive Bloc” of the Duma, led by President 
Rodzianko and Milyukov, and supported by the military commanders, in their 
anxiety to carry on the war more honestly and capably, were very moderate in 


War, Revolution, Death 145 

zianko, the corpulent squire and distinguished person, as he passed through 
the crowds of unbelted soldiers in the corridors of the Duma. He pre¬ 
served a majestic dignity, but on his pale face was congealed an expression 
of deep suffering and despair. Officially it was stated that “the soldiers 
had come to support the Duma in its conflict with the Government,” while 
in reality the Duma found itself abolished from the very first days. A 
similar expression could be noticed on the faces of all the members of the 
Duma Committee, and of those who stood close to them. I am told that 
representatives of the Progressive Bloc wept hysterically at their homes 
in helpless despair. . . . Even on my visits to the feeding stations, where 
the soldiers were fed day and night free of charge and with perfect 
cordiality, I observed that the hospitable hostesses endeavored to buy off 
the soldiery, as it were. They dined them and treated them lavishly, 
yet they felt the hopelessness of their efforts, since the soldiers sat in 
sullen concentration, chewed their food without letting the rifles out of 
their hands, not even conversing with one another, nor exchanging im¬ 
pressions; but conscious in a certain gregarious way of some common 
interests of their own, they meditated in their own fashion, in a manner 
different, incomprehensible, defying interpretation. 17 

The quoted passage epitomizes the nature of the Russian rev¬ 
olution. The century-long struggle against the autocratic re¬ 
gime resulted not in a political revolution, after the manner of 
the West, but in a social revolution. The third estate, which 
proved so strong and tactful in France and wherever it sup¬ 
planted the feudal aristocracy, was found wanting in Russia, 

their political demands. At first Rodzianko telegraphed to the tsar an urgent 
request for the appointment of a “responsible cabinet of ministers”—this was 
indeed the demand of the whole Progressive Bloc. Only after the revolt of the 
Petrograd garrison and the invasion of the Duma by rebellious regiments, did 
the Duma send a delegation to the tsar with the request for his abdication in 
favor of his son. Nicolas abdicated in favor of his brother Michael, an arrange¬ 
ment which was approved by the Duma Committee and by the Provisional Gov¬ 
ernment. A constitutional monarchy was all that the Progressive Bloc aspired 
to. But the victorious soldiers hooted Milyukov and Guchkov, when these an¬ 
nounced the candidature of Michael Romanov. The latter was persuaded to ab¬ 
dicate in his turn till the convocation of the Constituent Assembly, which would 
decide on the form of the national government. These facts are quoted after 
Milyukov’s History of the Second Russian Revolution, pp. 40-55. Milyukov.states 
that he was the only member of the Government opposed to the abdication of 
Michael (p. 54), and he considers this abdication as “the first capitulation of! 
the Russian revolution” (p. 55), which inevitably led to the triumph of the 
Bolsheviki (p. 58). 

17 Reminiscences, pp. 70-72. 


146 Leonid Andreyev 

both in numbers and in social stamina. The third estate, 
through the Duma leaders, wanted only a political change, and 
solicited the aid of the army for the accomplishment of this 
change. But these leaders found themselves in the position of 
Frankenstein, when their intended tool began to “meditate.” 
The Russian soldier had an ideal reputation in military annals, 
because of his endurance and unquestioning obedience. But 
now the stolid peasant mass, forming the bulk of the army, was 
jolted out of its mental stagnancy and passivity into the recog¬ 
nition of its power and importance. On one hand the soldier 
became aware of the corruption and weakness of the old regime 
which caused unnecessary slaughter through lack of sufficient 
and proper ammunition. 18 On the other hand, the soldier who 
broke his oath of loyalty to the tsar and brought about his 
downfall, was now hailed and glorified as the savior of Russia 
and of liberty. Since he became convinced that revolt was a 
virtue, he concluded in his naive way of reasoning that the de¬ 
gree of virtue was in proportion to the thoroughness of the rev¬ 
olution. Compromise as a mode of thinking and acting implies 
a civilized stage, whereas the simple Russian comprehended 
only such an alternative as aut Ccesar aut nihil. The removal 
of the tsar signified to the masses the abolition of the symbol 
of authority emanating from an outside source, and implying 
blind obedience and unquestioning submission to a small group 
of privileged persons. The annulment of this authority meant 
to the common man the establishment of its antipode—the 
authority of the unprivileged. Hence: all land to the peasants, 
all factories to the workmen, all power to the Soviets of work¬ 
men’s, peasants’, and soldiers’ deputies. 

The efforts of the several provisional governments from 
March to November, 1917, were concentrated on modifying 
this simple reasoning of the masses, while on the other hand 
this reasoning was encouraged by the Bolsheviki. With his 

18 In his Reminiscences M. V. Rodzianko states that “the Army was fighting 
well-nigh with bare hands. During my visit to the front, in the spring of 1915, 

I witnessed cases when our soldiers repulsed attacks with stones. There was a 
project to arm the troops with axes”— Archive of the Russian Revolution (Archiv 
russkoy revolutsii), v. VI, Berlin, 1922. 


War, Revolution, Death 147 

fiery eloquence Kerensky appealed to the people for patience, 
for compromise, for the postponement of their demands till the 
convocation of the Constituent Assembly, which would have 
the power to legalize the social and economic changes. At the 
same time Kerensky engaged in the tremendous task of electrify¬ 
ing the disorganized and vacillating army with a fighting spirit 
and with a desire to continue the war against the Central Pow¬ 
ers, in the name of democracy. Indeed, he succeeded in induc¬ 
ing a portion of the troops to advance against the enemy, to be 
followed before the end of June by a collapse of the military 
organization, and by an ignominious retreat of the armies on all 
fronts. Leonid Andreyev felt indignant and heartbroken: an¬ 
other illusion had burst. He published a scorching appeal to 
the Russian soldier, in which he said: 

Soldier, what hast thou been under Nicolas Romanov? Thou hast 
been a slave of the autocracy. . . . Soldier, what hast thou been in the 
days of the revolution ? . . . Thou hast been our love, our happiness, our 
pride. . . . And what hast thou become now, Soldier? . . . 

Scoundrel . . . thou hast betrayed Russia. 

Ah, how thou didst fly from the enemy, Russian Soldier! Never be¬ 
fore has the world seen such a rout, such a mob of traitors. It knew the 
one Judas, but here were tens of thousands of Judases running past each 
other, galloping, throwing down rifles, quarrelling. . . . 

Russia is dying, Russia is calling to thee. 

Arise, dear Soldier! 19 

But neither the harsh “scoundrel” nor the caressing “dear” 
could stop the elemental disintegration of the gigantic body of 
the Russian army. When one reads at present the memoirs 
of the participants in the affairs of those months, written with 
the objectivity of a cooled-off, retrospective view, one can jus¬ 
tify Andreyev’s short-sightedness only by the pathos of proxim¬ 
ity. Milyukov and Stankevich, in their works quoted pre¬ 
viously, V. Nabokov, 20 General Krasnov, 21 General Lukom- 

19 Translated from Russkaya Volya in the Yale Review, January, 1918, pp. 
225-228. 

20 “The Provisional Government,” in Archive of the Russian Revolution, v. I, pp. 
9-96. Berlin, 1921. 

21 “At the Interior Front,” ibid., pp. 97-240. 


148 Leonid Andreyev 

sky , 22 Peter Ryss , 23 to mention only a few of the active military 
and civilian leaders of that time, all agree that the offensive of 
the Russian army during the month of June was doomed to 
disaster. An army which had to be persuaded to advance, not 
by force of command but by eloquent speeches, was an absurd 
anachronism . 24 Hopelessly demoralized under the tsar’s mis¬ 
management , 25 the army became permeated from the very be¬ 
ginning of the revolution with such tendencies as inevitably fol¬ 
lowed the abolition of the custom of saluting officers, the estab¬ 
lishment of “soldiers’ committees” for the discussion and man¬ 
agement of regimental affairs, and the incessant mass meetings 
at the front and in the rear, where a people cowed into submis- 

22 “From My Reminiscences,” ibid., v. II, pp. 14-44. 

23 The Russian Experiment (Russky Opyt). Paris, 1921. 

24 The ardor of the French revolutionary troops was due to the fact that 
they fought in defense of the revolution and the fatherland against the' foreign 
invaders. In 1917 the Russian soldiers had no such slogans, despite Kerensky’s 
efforts to persuade them that they were fighting for precisely these values. The 
success of Trotsky’s red army may be ascribed, in the first place, to the fact that, 
as in the case of France after 1791, Russia was threatened in 1919 and 1920 both 
by foreign invaders and by counter-revolutionary generals. The second reason 
for the superiority of the Bolshevik troops over those of Kerensky may be found 
in the rigid military discipline which was restored by Trotsky after it had been 
thoroughly debauched in 1917. 

25 Lack of ammunition and provisions, and the failure of the commanding offi¬ 
cers to inspire respect and confidence, had destroyed the morale of the Army 
even before the revolution. Ex-President Rodzianko cites the following facts: 
“During 1915-1916 the number of soldiers who let themselves be captured amounted 
to two million; one million and a half deserted the front.” Such were the 
official figures. “On August 26, 1914, after the battle of Gelchevo, there were 
left fifteen hundred men out of a regiment of thirty-five hundred. Three days 
later there gathered at the kitchens another fifteen hundred perfectly sound 
privates. I assert that such cases were not singular, and were absolutely veri¬ 
fied.” Before the revolution a group of officers headed by General Krymov ar¬ 
rived at Petrograd with a special report about “the Army getting decomposed, 
and the discipline being \hreatened by a complete breakdown. . . . The state of 
mind among the troops is growing so menacingly grave that the soldiers will most 
probably refuse to advance, and before this winter is over may abandon the 
trenches and the battlefield.” It seems, in the light of these facts, absurd to blame 
the revolution or the Bolsheviki for the debacle of the Russian army, and for the 
resultant separate peace with Germany. Rodzianko, a conservative and a mon¬ 
archist, says: “I assert that the war would have been lost even if there were no 
revolution, and a separate peace would have been signed in all probabilities, per¬ 
haps not at Brest-Litovsk, but somewhere else, and it would have been even more 
disgraceful, because it would have resulted in Germany’s economic domination 
over Russia .”—Archive of the Russian Revolution — VI, pp. 22-45, passim. 


War, Revolution, Death 149 

sion and silence burst forth for the first time in a passionate, ir¬ 
resistible torrent of words. Says Stankevich: 

Military authority was the first to disintegrate. It had fallen to 
pieces immediately after the revolution, even under Alexeyev, Guchkov, 
and Kornilov. An army which had been built up on automaticity, me¬ 
chanicalism and strict formalism, found itself deprived of any prescribed 
regulations, of all authority. . . . Accustomed to answer only “Yes, sir,” 
“No, sir,” and “I am unable to know,” the army all of a sudden began 
to talk, to make a noise, to argue, to “self-determine.” Built up on the 
contradistinction between private and officer, the army began to be self- 
governed on the basis of the most democratic quadripatrite formula [uni¬ 
versal, direct, equal and secret vote]. 26 

Andreyev was slow in discerning the real state of affairs: the 
systematic disillusionizer of yore was loth to part with the 
bright illusion he had created out of the Russian soldier. But 
when he did bring himself to the painful task of analyzing con¬ 
ditions, he once more revealed his unfailing sharpness of vision 
and correctness of foresight. Late in the summer of 1917, in 
an article called “Ruin and Destruction,” he stated that the 
country was “in mortal danger,” and predicted the following 
events: 1, starvation, caused by the inevitable conflict between 
city and village; 2, the complete disintegration of the army; 3, 
a separate peace with the Central Powers, which Andreyev re¬ 
garded as treason to the Allies; 4, financial bankruptcy; 5, the 
breaking up of Russia into numerous states. Andreyev not only 
foresaw the fulfillment of his prophecy, but even prepared him¬ 
self to meet the new situation philosophically, as may be seen 
from the bitterly sarcastic conclusion of his article: 

And perhaps—perhaps there really ought not to be any Russia? Per¬ 
haps this is merely an old-fashioned term which it is time to destroy? If 
there is to be no Russia, there will be something else . . . “and at the 
coffin’s portal young life shall play anew.” Does it matter after all, 
whether it is Russian life or young German life? The people, too, will 
not perish. You cannot destroy at a blow one hundred million people. 

26 Reminiscences, p. 145. 


150 Leonid Andreyev 

They will get used to the new conditions. Who knows, perhaps there 
really ought not to be any Russia? 27 

Yet Andreyev was reluctant to acquiesce in passive grief. 
Late in October, 1917, after the Germans had occupied Riga 
and were threatening Petrograd, he appealed to the Allies for 
help. “Russia,” he wrote in Russia’s Will, “is going through 
a period of most dangerous sickness, and all further delay may 
prove fatal and irreparable.” 28 He called on the British fleet 
to hasten to the Baltic Sea, in order to draw off the Germans 
from Russia’s capital. But the Allies withheld all active support 
from the tottering government of Kerensky, hoping perhaps 
that with its fall there would be a chance for a strong order 
under the military dictatorship of the Kornilov group. 29 In 
October of that year Andreyev was elected by the Petrograd 
editors to the “Pre-Parliament,” or “The Council of the Re¬ 
public,” convoked by Kerensky at the eleventh hour, in view 
of the oncoming Bolshevik wave. 30 This Council assembled a 

27 Quoted after Mr. L. Pasvolsky’s translation in the Review, December 6, 1919, 
pp. 638, 639. 

28 The London Times, October 24, 1917. 

29 Such, at any rate, was the attitude of the Russian conservatives and liberals, 
backed by the British Ambassador and by the larger portion of the Allied press. 
The second part of his History of the Second Russian Revolution (Sofia, 1922), 
Milyukov devotes to the one question; “Kornilov or Lenin?” The author, an 
adherent of Kornilov, represented those who gambled on that alternative. Ker¬ 
ensky categorically states in his article “Gatchina” ( Contemporary Annals [ Sovre - 
mennyia Zapiski ], October, 1922, p. 147, Paris) that the Kornilovist groups de¬ 
cided not to aid his government in case of a Bolshevik uprising. “Their strategic 
plan consisted in not interfering with the success of the Bolshevik armed insur¬ 
rection, and in quickly suppressing the Bolshevik ‘mutiny’ after the fall of the 
hateful Provisional Government.” 

30 In this connection may be cited a letter from Gregory Zilboorg, a loyal sup¬ 
porter of the Provisional Government, which he wrote in reply to my inquiry as to 
what he knew personally of Andreyev’s political activity. I translate it from 
the Russian; 

. . . “As to his political activity or political views, it is a lustreless story. . . . 
Since 1914 Andreyev, like the overwhelming majority of the Russian writers, had 
been silent. . . . His King, Law, Liberty is nothing but a hurriedly baked drama, 
in which there is everything requisite for a play of that sort, but in which there 
is nothing of Andreyev himself. It is evident that his social sympathies became 
dislocated and befogged. ... In 1916 began the notorious epopee of Protopopov. 
. . . His newspaper, Russia’s Will (Purishkevich nicknamed it Prussia’s Will), 
proved a colorless, lifeless, short-lived sheet, in which Andreyev occupied a prom¬ 
inent position together with Amfiteatrov. . . . Then the revolution flamed up. An- 


War, Revolution, Death 151 

few times even during the Bolshevik uprising, accomplishing 
nothing beyond fine oratory. Andreyev cherished no longer 
any hopes. “Everything is upside down,” he wrote to a friend 
during the growing domination of the Bolsheviki. “They rule 
Russia. They are going to direct the Academy of Sciences, the 
universities, to legislate. They, the illiterates. This is an in¬ 
surrection of darkness against knowledge, of stupidity against 
reason.” His faith in the people proved to be of short dura¬ 
tion. In March of that year he had written (probably to Nem¬ 
irovich-Danchenko) : “I am sick as a clinic, and yet I rejoice 
like Isaiah, and regard the future with calm and confidence. 
Most important of all—I trust the people.” A few months 
later his old contempt for the mob reemerged, coupled with his 
mistrust in the value of all classes of the population. On Oc¬ 
tober 29 he wrote to Goloushev: “An unprecedented triumph 
of stupidity ... At present all democratic elements have sep¬ 
arated themselves from the Bolsheviki, but this is of small 
avail. . . . How tedious life is becoming, brother! Every¬ 
thing personal has perished, is forgotten, while the social values 
—this is what they have become! Then this Council, where I 
sit: such faces, brother, that even before the uprising they re¬ 
duced me to despair, to uttermost gloom.” 

The victory of Lenin and his adherents was due mainly to 
their making use of the popular slogans of the moment, prom¬ 
ising immediate peace to a war-weary nation, land to a soil- 

dreyev appeared nowhere with speeches . . . appeared at no workmen’s meetings 
nor at any revolutionary gatherings. It seemed as though for the time he had 
dwindled away. He held (passively) a Cadet position—that is, he regarded the 
Provisional Government with hostility, sympathized with Kornilov, with old Alex- 
eyev, with Milyukov, etc. When by the middle of October the party forces had 
definitely crystallized, and the Pre-Parliament opened under the name of the 
“Temporary Council of the Republic,” or, as Kerensky once called it, “the coun¬ 
cil of the temporary republic,” Leonid Andreyev took his place there with the 
Right, with General Alexeyev, Milyukov, Peter Struve, and others. He made not 
one speech, and voted all the time in unison with Alexeyev. Strange to say, 
it was difficult, impossible, to recognize in the Andreyev of those days, the 
former Andreyev, the stormy, turbulent, thunderous, fighting Andreyev. I saw 
him a few times in the corridors of the Maria Palace, where the Council met. 
It was not Andreyev, but a meek, taciturn, sullen middle-aged man, walking up 
and down the crowded hall. On November 9 the Bolsheviki replaced us. An¬ 
dreyev disappeared from the scene, without having appeared on it. . . .” 


152 Leonid Andreyev 

hungry peasantry, and bread to a starving population. Even 
such a bitter enemy of the Bolsheviki as Professor P. N. Mil- 
yukov has come to regard that coup in the light of historical 
retrospect as a natural and inevitable phenomenon. In his lec¬ 
ture before the Lowell Institute, on October 28, 1921, he stated 
that “Russia was ripe for the revolution.” He admitted that 
the dilatory policy of the moderate parties, their postponement 
of important reforms till the meeting of the Constituent As¬ 
sembly, and their advocating the continuation of the war, were 
“a great mistake,” and “fatal.” 31 “The agrarian question and 
the control of the factories by the workmen were matters which 
had become firmly rooted in the masses. The soldier, it was 
soon discovered, did not want to wait till the Assembly met to 
divide his land . . . Furthermore, there was insidious propa¬ 
ganda to the effect that the Army was fighting for capitalists 
and imperialists. The Germans fraternized with the Russians 
over the trenches and caused havoc at the time of the greatest 
need. At the same time the extremists in Russia were quite 
willing to make use of the mind of the soldiers . . . The Bol¬ 
shevik victory at Petrograd would have appeared slight in its ef¬ 
fects had it not been received well everywhere. The uprising 
practically met with no resistance.” 32 

But Leonid Andreyev refused to accept the Bolshevik victory 
as a historic inevitability. Ignoring the fact that the Russian 
army was in no position to carry on the war, he regarded the 
Bolsheviki as traitors for having concluded a separate peace 
with the Central Powers. Ignoring the fact that Kerensky’s 
government was impotent and unpopular, he branded as usurp¬ 
ers and bandits the Bolsheviki who assumed authority without 
meeting resistance. He wished to remain uncompromisingly 
loyal to his illusion about the significance of the purpose of the 
war, hence he could not forgive the Realpolitiker who signed 

31 Milyukov elaborates the same view in his Russia, To-day and To-morrow, 
p. 32 (New York, 1922), where we find such a typical sentence as this: “It was 
a mistake on the part of the moderate groups not to pay enough attention to the 
consequences of their conscientious but dilatory methods.” 

32 Quoted after the Boston Evening Transcript, October 29, 1921, part one, p. 4. 


War, Revolution, Death 153 

the disgraceful treaty of Brest-Litovsk. War against the Bol- 
sheviki he came to consider as a sacred cause, in which all civ¬ 
ilized nations were in duty bound to take part. Eagerly he 
awaited the fall of the Soviet government under the onslaught 
of its numerous foes—Russian, German, and Entente. From 
his Finnish abode he could hear the bombardment of Kronstadt, 
the port of Petrograd, and his heart craved for news of the fall 
of the red capital. When more than a year had passed with 
the power of the Bolsheviki still unbroken, Andreyev issued his 
S. O. S. y as he named his final appeal to the Allies to “intervene 
and stop bloodshed and anarchy” 33 in Russia. In fact, it was 
more a wrathful protest and a hopeless cry of agony than a 
practical appeal for help, though the latter note also sounded 
here and there in the article, as for instance: 

As a wireless operator on a sinking ship sends his last message through 
night and murk: “Help, come quickly! We are sinking. Save our 
souls!” so I, moved by faith in human goodness, fling into the dark dis¬ 
tance my prayer for sinking men. Could you but know how dark is 
the night over us! . . , 34 

How faint must have been, however, Andreyev’s “faith in 
human goodness” at this very time, while he was engaged in 
writing Satan’s Diary! At the end of his outcry he seemed to 
realize the futility of it, and he addressed it to the chosen few: 
“Just as among bipeds there are men, so among journalists there 
are some who have long earned the name of knights of the Holy 
Ghost, and write not with ink, but with their nerves and blood, 
and to these I appeal. . . .” 35 Much firmer sounded his con¬ 
demnation of the Allies whose position with reference to Russia 
he considered “either treachery or madness” (p. i). Bitterly 
he advised his countrymen to forget that William II “had pre¬ 
pared to take his lunch at Paris, and that Mr. Wilson had taken 
his there only through the lucky chance of having crossed two 
oceans: the Atlantic, and the ocean of Russian blood poured out 

83 These were the words in the cable dispatch to the London Times, for March 
x, 1919. 

84 S. O. S., p. xi, of the pamphlet published in Finland in 1919. 

86 Ibid., p. 18. 


154 Leonid Andreyev 

in defense of the Allied cause. . . . Forward, then, Russia, un¬ 
til thou comest to the very Cross! Guiltless of thy blood are 
Mr. Wilson and Mr. Lloyd George—has not all the world seen 
how they strove to wash their hands?” (pp. 5 and 8). 

The task of examining the rightness or wrongness of Andre¬ 
yev’s stand in regard to the war and the revolution is beyond 
the scope of this essay. We are here concerned with his state 
of mind, with the explanation of his point of view, not with its 
justification. Regarded from this angle, Andreyev’s attitude 
toward Soviet Russia presents for us a profound personal trag¬ 
edy of shattered hopes and polluted ideals. It was, further¬ 
more, a double tragedy, in the sense that while condemning the 
Bolsheviki and advocating merciless war against them, Andre¬ 
yev found himself, as we shall presently see, isolated among 
the uncongenial counter-revolutionists. 

The last years of Andreyev’s life were full of mental and 
physical anguish. He suffered from material privation, from 
chagrin on account of conditions in Russia, and particularly 
from the consciousness of the atrophy of his creative faculty. 
Maria Yordansky, editor of the leading monthly, Contempo¬ 
rary World, in whose pages appeared Andreyev’s Thought (in 
1902) and other stories, described her meetings with the writer 
during 1918 and 1919. In February, 1918, she rode with him 
in a railway carriage from Petrograd to Finland. He told her 
that immediately after the Bolshevik coup he settled with his 
family in his Finnish villa, with no intention of returning to 
Russia so long as the victors were in power. But the news of 
his mother’s illness made him undertake the dangerous journey 
to Petrograd: 

“I stayed at my sister’s” (he said) “in hiding. During this time my 
own residence was searched several times, everything was ransacked— 
books, papers, letters, clothes. They were looking for me. They tried 
to force my servant by threats to reveal my whereabouts. Very seldom, 
toward evening, I would go out to breathe some fresh air. They might 
have arrested me on the street, if I had been recognized.” 36 

36 l. Andreyev’s Emigration and Death (Emigratsia i smert L. Andreyeva), in 
Native Land (Rodnaya Zemlya), No. 1, p. 45. New York, 1920. 


War, Revolution, Death 155 

We are not told for what precise reasons Andreyev was 
threatened with arrest. His views must have been widely 
known, judging from the fact that he “daily received heaps of 
letters in which he was called ‘an abominable toady and lackey 
of the bourgeoisie,’ ‘traitor to the working class,’ ‘hireling of 
international imperialism championing the continuation of the 
world slaughter.’ ” 37 The letters bore such signatures as “a 
group of soldiers,” “a group of sailors,” “a group of work¬ 
men,” or those of private citizens. His article, To the Russian 
Soldier, became evidently notorious, provoking anger and in¬ 
dignation. Andreyev remarked with bitterness that this was 
probably the only composition of his these people had read. 38 
In proletarian Russia he felt even more isolated than under the 
autocratic rule. 

This was Andreyev’s last trip to Russia. As soon as his 
mother was strong enough to travel, she came to her Leonid, 
and shared to the last his poverty and tribulations, outliving him 
by nearly one year. The relations of Andreyev with his mother 
are worth noting. In his autobiography, written for Fidler, he 
mentioned that his “predilection for artistic activity belonged 
by inheritance to his maternal line”; also that his mother was 
his first instructor in drawing, “holding the pencil” in his 
hands. 39 She was of Polish descent (as were the mothers of 
many other Russian writers, notably of Nekrasov, Korolenko, 
Veresayev), nee Pockowski, Anastasia Nikolayevna. Andre¬ 
yev’s sentiment for his mother can be seen from his letter to 
her written shortly after his last trip to Petrograd. A good 
deal of the intimate atmosphere is unfortunately lost in trans¬ 
lation, but whatever is retained of the original has much bio¬ 
graphical value. A full reproduction of this letter is justified by 
its being so characteristic of Andreyev. His style here, as 
occasionally in his fiction, is uneven, pictorial beauty alternating 
with exaggerations and bits of dubious humor. On the other 
hand, the letter reveals for us a corner of the author’s intimate 

37 ibid. 

38 Ibid., p. 46. 

39 First Literary Steps, pp. 28, 29. 


156 Leonid Andreyev 

self, showing him capable of warm affection and love, a trait 
which may surprise readers of his skeptical, destructive works. 
It also becomes evident how well Andreyev could play a part, 
wear a mask, appear jolly and poke fun, while his heart ached 
with grief and despair. Here and there the letter hints at the 
tragedy of the lonely foresaken writer, who forces a smile in 
recounting his little troubles and little joys, in growing enthusi¬ 
astic over an old letter from the author Goloushev. He does 
not tell his mother of his anxious thoughts concerning Russia, 
though he is already contemplating his despondent S. O. S. 40 

Dear Little Mother! You still think it is a joke, but I tell you in 
the most serious manner that I love your letters very much, and that you 
are—how shall I say?—extremely congenial to me in your letters, both 
in their tone and in their contents. To be sure, your handwriting is 
terrible, and your orthography resembles the orthodoxy of an anarchist; 
indisputable is also the fact that your profound contempt for punctuation 
marks transforms your manuscripts into a continuous marasmus and cata¬ 
clysm, forcing the reader to gasp for breath; everybody knows, too, that 
many a strong and healthy person has sobbed helplessly over your letters, 
despairing of finding a beginning and an end in these closely knitted 
stockings sans heels and toes—but all these things are trifles, the mere ex¬ 
terior. As to substance, you always write sensibly, cleverly, and finely, 
and somehow you always manage to tell an immense lot in a short letter. 

Your last letter is one of the best specimens of your literary efforts. 
Again, little mother, I am not jesting in the least, and say this with the 
warmest affection for you, my semi-centennial friend. Fifty years, you 
will admit, is not a little, and you and I have been friends nearly fifty 
years, beginning with Pushkarsky Street [in Orel], and ending by the 
cold rocks of Finland. Before your eyes I have grown from a puss in 
boots and a ganglion into a writer of Russia, having passed through 
drunkenness, poverty, suffering. Before my eyes from a young woman you 
have become a “granny,” having also passed through suffering, poverty, 
and so forth. And no matter what has happened to us, whithersoever 
fate has brought us, high up or low down, you and I have never lost 
the closest cordial bond. Persons came and went, but you always stayed 
with me, always the same—true, immutable, singular. I know some fam¬ 
ilies where fine relations exist between parents and children, between 

*° Sec Roerich’s statement, infra p. 163, 


War, Revolution, Death 157 

mothers and sons, but such relations as between you and me I have not 
met. That is the truth. 

I always write to you so much not because I am obliged to do so, and 
must perform a tedious duty, but because to write to you is both interest¬ 
ing and needful for me, needful for my own soul. I always know and 
feel that no one will understand me so well, will take such interest, will 
put so much love into reading my writings, as you do, and that no one 
will so grasp my jests and will laugh over my “funny” letters as you do, 
my unchangeable little Mushroom [a nickname Andreyev gave his mother 
when a child]. Of course I do not write you everything: sometimes I 
am afraid to disturb and distract you, sometimes—especially in matters 
involving philosophy and too complex problems—I naturally avoid too 
elevated a style; very often I even lie to you concerning my health and 
mood, presenting them in better color than they really are, but—you un¬ 
derstand—even when I lie to you I feel a relief, I know that at all events 
you sense the truth and sympathize. 

I do not like and do not know how to write sentimental things in 
letters, and for this reason I am not going to say hozv I love you, and 
how your illness has worried and frightened me. You know this your¬ 
self. I am stronger than others, and when necessary I am able to re¬ 
strain myself and to keep a calm appearance, and this may some¬ 
times deceive those who know and feel less than I do. But you know 
this, and I shall say no more about it. It is my misfortune that for this 
external reserve and calm I have to pay for a long time afterward with 
all sorts of pains, bodily and mental. Those who without restraint ex¬ 
press themselves in words, in confusion, in tears, and so forth, manage 
to calm down and forget, while I remember everything. 

Yes, I have a good memory, little mother, and though I may at times for¬ 
get evil done to me, I never forget good deeds. I remember everything! 
But then surely I shall never, not even in my sleep, forget the endless 
good which you have shown me, your endless goodness and kindness. 
You have done so much for me in my life, more than any person can 
possibly do for another. Here again begins the sentimental, so I am not 
going to proceed, but I repeat—and do remember this: However much, 
in your opinion, I have done for you, I cannot repay you even a thou¬ 
sandth part, and shall thus remain your debtor. I have nasty nerves and 
an easily irritable mind. At times I am rude and loud, but if I grieve 
you, know that I myself suffer from it and feel ashamed at my boorish¬ 
ness. I am simply not a good enough man to pay you in full for all 
your goodness, and I am conscious of it. For example, how many times 


158 Leonid Andreyev 

have I sworn before you that I shall never shout at you when playing 
whist, yet as soon as you deal wrongly I roar like one scalded. 

And now, my dear little mother, my main wish is that you recuperate 
and grow healthy, without worrying and exciting yourself. I know that 
it is hard to be calm when we are in different places, and that it is hard 
not to be excited when both the Germans and the Bolsheviki push on, 
but here, forsooth, nothing can be done. Such terrible times not only 
Russia but the whole world has not seen for ages, and one must endure, 
with clenched teeth. If we could only manage to live through it! I 
think that Petrograd is threatened with no other calamities than hunger. 
The fact that the “government” has fled to Moscow will force those who 
have stayed to wake up and come to their senses. Everybody is in straits 
at present. 

About us you need not worry. To be sure, it is our good fortune to 
own a house in the village, and to be known and treated well by every 
one around here. On my last arrival from Piter [the popular nickname 
for Petrograd], when late at night I had to walk from Tyursevo along 
the railroad ties, I asked an unknown Finn whom I met ^on the way 
whether it was against the rule to walk there. He said: “Others may 
not, but you may: everybody knows you.” 

So far everything is quiet here. Red Guards are scarce, most of them 
are fighting beyond Helsingfors. ... I am afraid only of one thing— 
of hunger, which will come if the Reds and the Whites do not make 
peace but continue the senseless row. 

The weather is remarkable. In the shade it is a trifle below freezing, 
but in the sun there is about twenty degrees [Reaumur; about seventy- 
seven Fahrenheit]. The children’s rooms are not heated, and in Anya’s 
[Mme. Andreyev’s] study flies are buzzing. And it’s so dazzlingly 
bright. The day seems as long as G’s [probably Goloushev’s] nose il¬ 
luminated by a searchlight. I stroll about, or find a little place in the 
sun, near the annex or by the front entrance, and closing my eyes I warm 
my muzzle. And I smell such a wonderful odor of something distant— 
of free expanses, of the sea, of Italy, of far-away blue skies. The other 
day I came out to the sea: a smooth sparkling white film, and on the 
horizon the aerial blue of the other shore. Such a deception: it appears as 
though over there, on that blue coast, they have not ice, snow, and winter, 
as we have here, but summer forests and meadows. 

But the really happy ones are, of course, the children. The little idiots 
know nothing about Wilhelm or about Lenin, they eat to satiety, sleep 


War, Revolution, Death 159 

soundly, laugh and play, and dive in the snow joyfully like cubs. And 
they always feel warm! 

After dinner—this is a peculiarity of our bookish home—the nursery 
presents such a picture: beneath the lamp around the table sit Natasha 
[the widow of Andreyev’s brother, Vsevolod], Emilia [the governess], 
Vadim [the eldest son of Andreyev by his first wife], Savva, Vera, Val¬ 
entin [his three children by his second wife], and in deep silence they all 
read. They gobble up enormous books, of thousands of pages. To be 
sure, the funniest person is Tinchik [Valentin]. Not long ago Didishka 
[Vadim] got angry at him for something, and asked him, referring to his 
brain: “What have you got in your head?” Tinchik answered quickly: 
“Vanity!” He is very coy and affectionate with me, though after a kiss 
he immediately retreats into a corner; then from the corner he comes 
again for a kiss. Vadim works a good deal, has grown still bigger, and 
behaves very well: for him this year has proved very beneficial. In the 
evening we have talks. 

Anna has been safely to the city and back, and she got very tired: a 
terrible lot of packing and transporting. She works too much, but I 
scold her all the same, lest she grow conceited. To tell the truth, she 
overworked during your illness. 

I am tired writing, and shall finish to-morrow. 

March io, new style [1918. The Russian calendar was thirteen days 
behind the Western]. 

Life here is still quiet and peaceful. Were it not for the newspapers, 
which I receive daily through Sirki, I might forget about the Germans 
and the Bolsheviki. But then, the food reminds one, of course. 

Still sunny, dripping from the roof, though the snow is firm and crisp. 
To-day after dinner—we eat all sorts of vile things, like sparrows—I sat 
on the upper terrace, in the sun. With your eyes closed, you might im¬ 
agine yourself in India, in a tropical forest, amidst bananas, cocoanut oil, 
and crocodile purses. One thing is bad: my head aches from time to time, 
not seriously, but annoyingly. I don’t know what it wants, it’s hard to 
come to an understanding with it. 

I receive no letters from any quarter. I worry a bit about Sergeyich 
[Sergey Sergeyevich Goloushev, by pen name Sergey Glagol; he died at 
Moscow in July, 1919]. Here is a dear man whom I love, and who re¬ 
gards me with sincere friendliness, unafraid of my talk and my influence. 
Yesterday I was looking over old papers and letters, and came upon these 
words from him—he wrote them after my departure from Moscow; “I 


160 Leonid Andreyev 

miss you in the day, I miss you in the evening. In your society I lived 
with all the hidden fibres of my soul, and felt my brains working ‘on all 
wheels.’ The devil knows why it is that no one but you arouses such 
plans in my mind and such thoughts in my head.” 

Get well, little mother, do not excite yourself, drive away disturbing 
thoughts. Read more of Dumas and others like him, do not gnaw at 
newspapers, and let politics alone. 

I embrace you firmly and tenderly, and I am always with you. At 
the first opportunity I shall send again some one with a letter to you. 
Don’t be lonesome, little Mushroom. Regard everything as a hard trial 
sent not to us alone. We are far better off than millions of others. Let 
us endure! 

Your Little Puss in Slippers. 

The last two years of his life Andreyev ruminated a great 
deal. His nervous, feverish activity of former years was re¬ 
placed by a self-conscious passivity which induced retro- and in¬ 
trospection. “It is dark in my soul,” he wrote to Goloushev 
in the spring of 1918. “I am consuming the last particles of 
my energy ... I wish to create, but am unable to, as though 
my talent had dried up.” This notion naturally paralyzed 
whatever was left of his creative faculty, fettering his wings 
with diffidence. Mme. Andreyev urged him to write in his 
diary, as an outlet. She informs me that “he wrote his diary, 
because he was unable to compose anything creative. Torment¬ 
ing and black were those last years.” In his diary and in his 
letters Andreyev expressed all of himself, all which he wished 
and could express during those dying days. His motives were 
black, both in regard to the future and to his personal recent 
past. Thus in his diary and in a letter to Goloushev he wrote 
disparagingly about his last works: “The fundamental ques¬ 
tion is, Why has it so happened that during the first ten years of 
my literary career I rose with each work straight upward, like 
a rocket, rose swiftly, decidedly, and radiantly—then suddenly 
stopped ... As though in the very air I had stumbled at some 
barrier, and I flutter beneath the ceiling like a bat. . . .” He 
proceeds to review his productions, and concludes that not one 
of his later plays comes up to his Life of Man or Anathema, 


War, Revolution, Death 161 

and that in his stories he has not excelled Judas and Darkness . 
Even his superior writings he now regards as incomplete: 
“The Life of Man promises more than it actually gives. An¬ 
athema is more advanced in age, but is still immature.” In this 
mood of self-flagellation Andreyev takes a morbid pleasure in 
abusing those of his works in which he appears somewhat con¬ 
structive. “In short: I am strong and unique as long as I de¬ 
stroy, as long as I am Lazarus, in whose person I once drew my¬ 
self. And I am weak, ordinary; I resemble many others and 
lose myself in the literary crowd, when I attempt to affirm, to 
console, to give hope, to pacify. Once born a Lazarus, I should 
remain one. . . . And what ruins me still further, is my most 
disgraceful lack of confidence in myself. In the depth of my 
soul I regard myself as rubbish, hence the pernicious effect of 
hostile critics on me.” Whether Andreyev always held such an 
opinion of himself, it is hard to say. As far as his pre-war ut¬ 
terances go, they do not betray any inferiority complex; rather 
do they display a calm confidence in his intuitive power and in 
the value of his literary activity. The war poisoned him, as 
he admitted in his diary. As early as 1915 we find him indulg¬ 
ing in self-humiliation, writing to a friend: “My soul is sick 
and frets at belonging to Leonid Andreyev. Ah, how I dislike 
him! At times tete-a-tete with myself is absolutely unbear¬ 
able.” Having lost his self-respect, he was no longer in a po¬ 
sition to bear philosophically his unpopularity and isolation. 
On April 20, 1918, he mentions in his diary the fact that on this 
day, the twentieth anniversary of his literary debut, he received 
not a single word of greeting, “not a sound.” “Why am I dis¬ 
liked?” he queries, and somewhat irrelevantly he reproaches 
himself of treason: “Born to curse, I have distributed in¬ 
dulgences.” 

A telling portrait of Andreyev toward the end of that year 
is presented by the painter and clairvoyant thinker, Nicolas 
Roerich, in an article from which the following passage is 
quoted: 

. . . His face had greatly changed. It had grown dark, had become a 
brown bronze, his nose appeared sharpened and pointed; his eyes, though 


162 Leonid Andreyev 

they had not lost the vividness of their gaze, had become still deeper 
(much knowing). His hair fell low on his neck in long black locks. 
Exactly the face of a Hindu sage guarding mysteries. Thus Andreyev 
appeared to me when we managed to meet in October, 1918, after a 
whole year of our sojourn in Finland. ... He was burning, he was all 
aflame with that same sacred thought with which he died on September 12, 
1919. This thought was—to reveal for humanity all the horror of 
Bolshevism in its present aspects. Lover of freedom and deep thinker, 
Leonid Nikolayevich understood that now the struggle must be carried 
on not only with bayonets, but also with the word, through wide propa¬ 
ganda, in which all reasoning forces should unite in the name of true 
culture. Saturated with life’s contradictions, he was composing his bril¬ 
liant appeals to humanity, one of which, S. O. S., had already been pub¬ 
lished; he was also working on his long novel, Satan s Diary, which 
apparently was left without a final reading. In Tyursevo, where he then 
lived, one could see from the shore through binoculars Kronstadt, even 
Krasnaya Gorka. And each one of the numerous incomprehensible bom¬ 
bardments of those points aroused Andreyev’s question: “What if this 
is Cain’s last minute?” 41 

Andreyev had moved for the winter to Tyursevo because at 
his village, Vammelsu, he found it difficult to provide all neces¬ 
sities, according to Maria Yordansky, who adds that owing to 
Andreyev’s habit of working all night, Tyursevo had to be 
chosen for its electric-light facilities . 42 In his diary, written 
early in the fall of 1918, one finds frequent references to the 
writer’s “hunger for light—lack of kerosene oil.” This com¬ 
plaint alternates with grumblings about the futility of his crea¬ 
tive efforts. He labors over his last attempt, Satan’s Diary, 
a story of the devil who assumes a human aspect for amuse¬ 
ment, and who discovers in the end how inferior his tribe is in 
cruelty and cunning to the human race. His state of mind dur¬ 
ing this work can be imagined from the following scattered 
notes in his diary: “Have written seven pages—threw them 
aside: I don’t like it. Superficial. No music, no sorrow, no 
love. Words, invention. . . . But then, I cannot write about 

41 N. K. Roerich, “To the Memory of Leonid Andreyev,” Native Land — 11 , p. 
37. New York, 1921. 

42 Ibid., p. 52. 


War, Revolution, Death 163 


the shooting and drowning of officers, which the Reds are carry¬ 
ing out at Vyborg! . . . Only one lamp in the study—I must 
put a period. ... I am working over my Devil with less zeal 
than over the little wheelbarrow [which he was making for his 
son, Valentin] . . . Catastrophes are not good for art. Only 
tricksters are in need of tangible material. Fakirs and miracle 
workers do without it. Messina [the earthquake] is a banal¬ 
ity. Moses, Dostoyevsky—there is something. . . . Have 
written fifty pages—cheap satire. Poor Shchedrin and poor 
Andreyev . . . Have changed it to the first person. . . . 
Eight new pages . . . Nervous impotence.” At the same time 
his complaints about his head and heart become more frequent. 
On December 18 of that year he suffered a prolonged heart at¬ 
tack, and Mme. Andreyev feared that it was the end. 

In February, 1919, Maria Yordansky visited Andreyev at 
Tyursevo, and found him “considerably thinner, older. Around 
his eyes and mouth had appeared new, sad lines.” 43 He ea¬ 
gerly inquired about the conditions of the Intelligentsia in Rus¬ 
sia, and was grieved to hear of their want and humiliation, of 
the omnipotence of Gorky, who at times interceded with the 
authorities for his unfortunate colleagues. Andreyev doubted 
Gorky’s sincerity, and said, according to Maria Yordansky: 


How many times during the years of my acquaintance with Gorky did 
I find myself arguing about him, warmly discussing his sincerity! Do 
you remember, I used to tell you about a circle of writers at Moscow 
[the “Wednesdays”] ? . . . We discussed literature, read our new stories, 
argued, and toward the end of the evening, when there remained only a 
close circle, the conversation inevitably turned on Gorky and his sincerity. 
Once Veresayev, on the evening when the gathering took place at his 
home, lost his patience at the futility of these arguments, and made a 
motion: “Gentlemen, once for all let us resolve not to touch on accursed 
problems. Let us not talk of Gorky’s sincerity.” We all laughed and, 
indeed, never spoke of this again. It is the same at present. One hates 
to talk of the subject. One reads Gorky’s statements to foreign corre¬ 
spondents. He declares that he is not a communist, does not sympathize 
with the Soviet policy, condemns terror—yet he works with them. For 


**lbid., p. 49* 


164 Leonid Andreyev 

enormous sums he sells them his works, takes from them millions for the 
official Soviet publication house, covers their abominations with his name. 
He does not trust them, does not believe in them, yet this [attitude] he 
calls “following the people.” . . . No, it is better for us not to “touch 
accursed problems.” 44 


Maria Yordansky further quotes Andreyev to the effect that 
a representative of Gorky came to see him, and offered to buy 
his works for a large sum of money, in the name of the state 
publication house. “Of course, I refused to enter into any 
negotiations with them,” 45 he said. Nicolas Roerich also told 
me of this, emphasizing the fact that the Soviet authorities en¬ 
deavored not so much to buy Andreyev’s works (since according 
to the new Russian legal code nothing could prevent them from 
reprinting his writings at their will), as to secure his good feel¬ 
ings by saving him from hardship and starvation. Andreyev’s 
firmness in declining to deal with the new rulers of Russia does 
credit to the strength of his convictions, though it remains an 
“accursed problem” whether Bolshevism should have been 
fought from within, through spreading enlightenment, in Gorky’s 
manner, or from without, as Andreyev thought fit. The latter 
preferred to serve his truth by helping the interventionists, by 
arousing public opinion in the West, by circulating his S. O. S., 
in the efficacy of which he seemed to have gained faith. Maria 
Yordansky quotes him as saying: 

A certain person has given ten thousand rubles for the purpose of trans¬ 
lating this article, and cabling it to the Paris and London press. This 
money will serve as a foundation for a propaganda fund, which is very 
greatly needed. . . . Every one who has read S . O. S. places great hopes 


44 Ibid., p. 51. His mistrust of Gorky began some time previously. In an un¬ 
dated letter to Nemirovich-Danchenko, written probably during the war, he said: 
“Once again I find myself at variance with Gorky. Innerly we have parted al¬ 
ready, and our outward separation will probably come before long. . . . How full 
of absurdities is Gorky’s head, and how little candor, straightforwardness, and 
truth has remained in all his actions and in his life. There was a time when 
I greatly loved and respected this man, and had hoped to preserve these senti¬ 
ments to the end—but it is impossible 1” 

45 Ibid., p. 54. 


War, Revolution, Death 165 

in it. I am told that the public opinion of Europe cannot help respond¬ 
ing. Yes, it cannot help responding . 40 

Andreyev’s ardent desire to devote his pen to anti-Bolshevik 
propaganda met with no enthusiasm on the part of those who 
should have welcomed his powerful alliance, as we shall see pres¬ 
ently. On the other hand, he was prevented from doing much 
work by the condition of his health. Toward the end of Febru¬ 
ary, 1919, Andreyev met in Finland a prominent refugee, I. V. 
Gessen, a leader of the Cadet party and an experienced jour¬ 
nalist. Andreyev urged Gessen to become the editor of a 
Helsingfors Russian newspaper, and to make it serve as a dis¬ 
seminator of information. “He believed,” writes Gessen, 
“that once we acquaint Europe with the true condition of af¬ 
fairs in Russia, then the civilized world cannot help coming to 
its aid in the name of saving Russian culture, so full of prom¬ 
ises.” 47 For some time Gessen declined the suggestion (so he 
states), but when he finally yielded to the entreaties of his 
friends, and communicated with Andreyev, requesting his prom¬ 
ised cooperation, the writer’s health did not permit him to ful¬ 
fill his promise. About two months after his meeting with Ges¬ 
sen, he wrote in his diary: “Both my body and my spirit are 
wretched. Frozen is my soul, and it will probably not revive 
till my very death” (April 8). During Passion week he en¬ 
tered: “My condition is no worse than that of Christ at this 
time. But He rose again!” (April 19). After the receipt of 
Gessen’s request, he wrote to him: 

Dear Iosif Vladimirovich: I am now in the position of that student 
who for two nights waited in line for an opera with Shalyapin in it, 
obtained a ticket, and in his seat, when he got warm, and the music began 
to play, fell asleep, and slept soundly through the whole evening, until 
the usher woke him up, and declared that all was finished. But whereas 
that lucky fellow got some repose, sleep and warmth, I am just ill. Ill 
and, at least for the present moment, an invalid. For two years I have 
lived under an excitement which had no outlet; all last winter I craved 

48 Ibid., pp. 54, 55. 

47 I. V. Gessen, “The Last Days of Leonid Andreyev,” in Archive of the Rus¬ 
sian Revolution — I, p. 309. 


166 Leonid Andreyev 

in vain for systematic activity (not artistic) : it failed to come to me. 
The end of it was that the entire store of excitement and emotions was 
spent on myself—and my heart gave out. I cannot write. The slight¬ 
est strain of thought, a bit of excitement in front of my typewriter—and 
I collapse: my heart begins to bump, then it stops, I gasp for breath—and 
feel the approach of death. 

My physician finds my heart “weakened,’ and forbids all activity, men¬ 
tal and even physical. In this manner I have lived for nearly two 
months, “neither a candle for God, nor a poker for the devil. I am 
employing every measure for my recuperation. I have moved back to my 
home on the Black Rivulet, and have begun to exercise little by little, 
working in the garden and putting up fences. I feel somewhat better, 
but in so small a measure as yet that a chance talk about politics, or a 
newspaper, may at once bring back my heart attacks. I write no letters, 
try to see as few people as possible—and read fairy tales. This is why 
I have not written to you; I felt guilty, yet I did not write, intending to 
explain the reason later. 

And here Burtsev invites me to work, then Kartashev , 48 finally your let¬ 
ter has reached me. Woe! Again I try not to fall to pieces, I fill my 
lungs with air and sun, and endeavor to prove to myself that my ailment 
is not serious and will pass. Otherwise—what then? I console myself 
with the consideration that I shall not be too late anywhere, since there 
are mountains of work ahead of us. 

This is how things are with me, dear Iosif Vladimirovich. It goes 
without saying that as soon as I am strong enough for even a little work, 
I shall get in touch with you. In the meantime I shall listen to the 
cannonade which occurs every day, and at times comes from three direc¬ 
tions; I mount to the tower to watch naval battles through my binoculars, 
I make guesses and divinations. Last night there were such imposing 
salvos and rumblings, somewhere beyond Ino, that our house shook. I 
must say that all of us have become accustomed to cannonading, as if it 
were a mere noise, only my most peace-loving dog, Marquis, hides indoors, 
unable to stand it. The battle at Sestroryetsk excited us somewhat—the 
machine guns barked distinctly; but this is of the past. 

48 V. Burtsev, once a rabid revolutionary (in writing), has become the mouth¬ 
piece of every anti-Bolshevik interventionist. He has been publishing an hysterical 
paper in Paris, in which he has supported in turn Kornilov, Youdenich, Denikin, 
Kolchak and Wrangel. N. Kartashev was Minister to Public Worship in Keren¬ 
sky’s cabinet, and later also became a supporter of the interventionists. Since the 
collapse of the Wrangel affair he has been advocating the maintenance of the 
remnants of the general’s army in Gallipoli and elsewhere, to be kept in readi¬ 
ness for the moment when it may strike again at Soviet Russia. 


War, Revolution, Death 167 

To-day I received an unexpected and joyous message: a telegram from 
my officer brother [Andrey] who disappeared last fall, to the effect that 
he is alive and well. And do you know, from where? From Omsk! 
“Omsk to Terioki”—those are the very words on the envelope. For me 
it is simply a miracle. And this miracle was brought by the most ordinary 
slip of a postman. Well, this means that my brother has reached Kolchak 
and is serving under him, which gladdens me. Perhaps it is due to my 
wretched life, but I believe in Kolchak firmly. He is the only one. 

I have heard about the English version of S. O. S ., and I am exceed¬ 
ingly happy that Pavel N. [Milyukov] has written its preface. With 
all his “mistakes,” I consider him the greatest statesman of Russia. Per¬ 
sonally, too, he has the greatest attraction for me. And how he works! 
I am envious. I know, you also work splendidly, and . . . but why stir 
my wounds. 

I press your hand firmly. Farewell, may you have strength and vigor, 
work on, and remember me not with a word of reproach but with a sigh 
of friendly commiseration. 

June 9, 1919. Leonid Andreyev. 49 

When one recalls Andreyev’s caustic satire against the Cadet 
party and its leaders (The Pretty Sabine Women, 1912), and 
compares it with his sympathetic attitude toward Gessen and 
Milyukov, expressed in the letter just reproduced, one concludes 
that war and revolution make strange bedfellows. The neces¬ 
sity of overthrowing the Bolsheviki became an idee fixe with 
Andreyev, a great goal which justified all means. He greeted 
every counter-revolutionary general as the potential savior of 
Russia. Thus he rejoiced at the formation, about August 
1919, of the “North-Western Government” at Revel, Esthonia, 
headed by General Yudenich. That he was not completely 
blinded by his joy, is evident from the sense of national humili¬ 
ation which he experienced, when considering that this “gov¬ 
ernment” was made up by the order of the English General 
March . 50 Yet he continued to advocate intervention, knowing 

Archive of the Russian Revolution, v. I, pp. 310, 311. 

50 Cited by Maria Yordansky, Native Land — 1 , p. 57. She quotes him further 
as remarking with bitterness that the destiny of Russia concerned the Entente 
less than that of Esthonia, Latvia, Karelia. Did he not know that the concern of 
the Entente in these countries was due to their forming the links of the “cordon 
sanitaire” prescribed by Clemenceau as a means for forcing Russia into sub¬ 
mission ? 


168 Leonid Andreyev 

that intervention inevitably meant national humiliation. His 
uncompromising hatred for the Bolsheviki impelled him to com¬ 
promise a great deal in his unqualified support of their enemies. 

One wonders how much of his rectilinear obstinacy fraught 
with inner contradictions he owed to his mental and physical 
state during that period. His diary entries became ever blacker 
in tone, with such refrains as “I feel as though I were in a 
grave up to my belt,” “I am thinking of suicide, or is suicide 
thinking of me?” “I am living in a jolly little house with its 
windows out on a graveyard.” Worst of all, he became aware 
that his thinking faculty, once so alert and brilliant, had lost its 
flexibility. “I feel as though a fat buttock has settled on my 
head, and softly presses it,” he commented on the state of his 
thoughts. Maria Yordansky relates from the words of Andre¬ 
yev’s mother and wife that in August, 1919, “he ate little, slept 
not at all, only occasionally took a short nap in the daytime; 
not long ago he had a fainting spell.” 51 She found Andreyev 
at the end of August “strikingly thin, sick, and exhausted, with 
deeply sunken sad eyes, and extremely nervous.” 62 The last 
photograph of Andreyev 53 shows plainly traces of suffering and 
anguish in the deep lines around the mouth, in the vertical fur¬ 
row on his brow, and especially in the indescribable sadness of 
the eyes full of pain, self-reproach, and despair. From the 
verbal descriptions as well as from the even more eloquent pho¬ 
tograph, it appears that in the summer of 1919 Andreyev was 
already a doomed man. His wistful yearning for activity, for 
struggle, for warfare at any price—does it not suggest the des¬ 
perate clinging of a drowning man to a straw? 

In spite of his poor health, Andreyev found in himself enough 
energy during the month of August to negotiate with the 
“North-Western Government” in regard to propaganda work. 

B1 Ibid., p. 56. 

52 Ibid., p. 57. Toward the end, his diary abounds in complaints about petty 
disturbances—the noise of the children, the mooing of the cow, the faces and voices 
of the neighbors. He moved from village to village, fretting about the unaesthetic 
interiors of the houses he had to abide in. 

53 Reproduced in The Fire Bird (Zhar-Ptitsa), No. 2, September, 1921. Paris- 
Berlin. 


War, Revolution, Death 169 

“He came to Helsingfors,” relates Gessen, “and stayed with 
me two weeks. A thirst for activity gripped him, and he 
dreamt of heading an organization for anti-Bolshevik propa¬ 
ganda. However, his plan met with no sympathy on the part 
of those on whom its realization depended, and the disappointed 
Leonid Nikolayevich resolved to go to America.” 54 This la¬ 
conic account tells volumes of the tragedy of Russia s ill-fated 
writer. Nicolas Roerich spoke to me with profound indigna¬ 
tion about the treatment of Andreyev by the Whites. When 
one of the greatest national writers offered all of himself to the 
“saviors of Russia,” pleading for permission to sacrifice his last 
fire and energy for what he considered a sacred cause, the au¬ 
thorities of the ephemeral government curtly declined the offer. 
They informed Andreyev, states Roerich, that his work was not 
needed, since they had a regular “chinovnik” (clerk) for the 
performance of the propaganda work. At this point I wish to 
quote the Academician Roerich on a germane matter. Accord¬ 
ing to the painter, Finland was swarming with wealthy Russians, 
opponents of the new regime and ardent lip-patriots. Yet they 
refused to come to Andreyev’s aid. Some of the writer’s 
friends pleaded with the rich Whites for their help in publish¬ 
ing Andreyev’s works, in order to obtain some means for his 
subsistence, but met with no response. “If Leonid Nikolay¬ 
evich did not die from actual starvation”—I am quoting Roer¬ 
ich verbatim—“it was due to an ordinary lumber merchant, 
Samuel Lazarevich Gurevich.” 

Failing in his negotiations with the army of Yudenich, Andre¬ 
yev decided to go on a lecture tour to the United States. “We 
sent a cablegram to a common friend of ours, a prominent 
American journalist,” writes Gessen, “and Leonid Nikolayev¬ 
ich returned home, to wait for an answer and prepare for the 
long journey.” 55 This American journalist must have been 

64 Archive of the Russian Revolution—I, pp. 309, 310. According to Mme. An¬ 
dreyev I V. Gessen ultimately was appointed Minister of Propaganda in the 
Yudenich government. In conversation with me Gessen spoke rather disparag¬ 
ingly of Andreyev, and made light of his S. O. S. 

65 Ibid., p. 310. 


170 Leonid Andreyev 

Mr. Herman Bernstein, who mentions this matter in his preface 
to Satan’s Diary. 56 In a letter to the New York Times, Mr. 
Bernstein quoted Andreyev’s proposal, to the effect that the 
purpose of his trip to the United States was “to combat the 
Bolsheviki, to tell the truth about them with all the power and 
conviction within him, and to awaken in America a feeling of 
friendship and sympathy for that portion of the Russian people 
which is heroically struggling for the rejuvenation of Russia.” 57 
The nervous strain and bewildering confusion experienced by 
Andreyev during those trying days may be gauged from his 
letter to Nicolas Roerich, dated August 23, 1919: 

Behold three roads open before me at this moment—such is life. One 
—“I take upon myself entirely” the whole work of anti-Bolshevik propa¬ 
ganda, as I have written and proposed to Kartashev and to others, and 
enter the local government with the portfolio of Minister of Propaganda 
and the Press. Understand: “entirely!” The organization in all its im¬ 
mensity, beside my own writing for it. It will mean that I live at Revel 
or wherever else chance may ordain, that I travel to and fro, talk for 
days, search out persons and bring them into the proper mood, and that 
at night I write, combat inertia and faint-heartedness. This is an activ¬ 
ity which requires an iron constitution, while I am sick, sick. My com¬ 
pensation will be a few copecks, not enough to live on with my family, 
so that I shall be compelled to continue the painful quest for credit, 
wasting the remnant of my strength—and ahead of me are sickness, in¬ 
security, sleepless nights, the Writers’ Asylum. But duty obliges me to 
work for Russia, so to-morrow I am journeying to Helsingfors, to plead 
for what will prove my indubitable end as an artist and as a living crea¬ 
ture. I say, “am journeying,” while my heart is so bad that yesterday I 
was scarcely able to move from one room to another. I say, “to plead,” 
yet I am too weak to exert my tongue and ask for a glass of tea. 

The second road. Getting no hearing in Helsingfors, I journey to 
America. There I deliver lectures against the Bolsheviki, travel through 

56 “A year ago Leonid Andreyev wrote me that he was eager to come to America, 
to study this country and familiarize Americans with the fate of his unfortunate 
countrymen. I arranged for his visit to this country and informed him of this 
by cable. But on the very day I sent my cable the sad news came from Finland 
announcing that Leonid Andreyev died of heart failure.”— Satan’s Diary, Preface, 
p. v, dated September. New York, 1920. 

57 New York Times, November 9, 1919, part III, p. 2. 


War, Revolution, Death 171 

the States, produce my plays, sell my Satan s Diary to a publisher, and 
return a multimillionaire to Russia for a care-free, venerable old age. 
This sounds better. The trip may turn out a failure (I may be sick, 
and collapse after the first lecture, or the Americans simply may not care 
to listen to me), but, under happy conditions, it may prove a “triumphant 
march”: I shall meet people who love me, shall receive impulses for 
new artistic work, and, having healed my mind, I may perhaps also pull 
up my body, which always lags behind. America! But how to get 
there? How find a good and generous manager, not a swindler? How 
to get along, until such a man is found? How procure some money, 
enough at least to maintain the family during my absence? I intend to 
travel with my wife and our little son; the rest will stay here. 

I have been robbed of my trousers and my boots—how shall I manufac¬ 
ture new ones, and of what style must they be for America? These are 
questions both grave and insignificant, at all events trifles for a sensible 
and practical person—but for me they are accursed, thoroughly insoluble 
problems. Ah, only now I see to what extent I am childishly helpless in 
life. Yet to-day is my birthday: forty-eight years I have been walking 
on the earth, and have so little adapted myself to its ways. 

The third, the most probable, road is—the hospital. But this road is 
so gloomy, and in general I am here approaching such thoughts and de¬ 
cisions, that I had better stop. 

As to what it means to work against your conscience, Gorky demon¬ 
strates that. In the last issue of the Liberator, an American Bolshevik 
journal which for some reason is being sent to me, he has an article, “Fol¬ 
low Us!”—that is, Soviet Russia and its wisdom. And what a miserable, 
wretchedly flat and insignificant article it is! When a poet and a 
prophet begins to prevaricate, God punishes him with impotence—such is 
the law of eternal justice. 58 

68 The article of Gorky, referred to by Andreyev, appeared in the Liberator for 
June, 1919, page 3. In it Gorky accuses Mr. Wilson of being “the leader of the 
campaign against Russia,” and he calls upon “the workers and honorable men 
in all the world”: “Follow us to a new life, for the creation of which we are 
working without sparing ourselves or anything or any one else. For this we are 
working, erring and suffering with the eager hope of success, leaving to the 
just decision of history all our acts. Follow us in our struggle against the old 
order, in the work for a new form of life, for the freedom and beauty of life.” 
To make clear his personal stand in regard to the Soviet regime, Gorky says: 
“I will not deny that this constructive work has been preceded by an often un¬ 
necessary destruction. But I, more than any one else, am justified and in a posi¬ 
tion to explain that the cultural metamorphosis which is going on under particu¬ 
larly difficult circumstances, and which calls for heroic exertions of strength, is 
now gradually taking on a form and a compass which has up to the present 


172 Leonid Andreyev 

’Tis night, and I must pack my things for to-morrow’s trip. Through 
the windows I can see over the dark sea—I live on the very shore search¬ 
lights cutting the stormy sky. Yesterday at sunrise, in a pale-blue sky 
amidst fading stars, I heard the buzzing of an aeroplane, and saw two 
bright-red flashes of explosions. How beautiful they were, and how beau¬ 
tiful was the pale sky in its early freshness and peace, and how wonder¬ 
ful must have seemed to the aviator the earth and the sky, and how 
splendid all this is, splendid to live, to fly, to see stars at dawn. 59 

This letter, the last utterance of Andreyev to end with such 
wistful buoyancy, was written at Tyursevo, whither he had 
moved once more from Vammelsu, in his ever-increasing rest¬ 
lessness. Early in September he was obliged to leave Tyurs¬ 
evo, where he enjoyed so intensely the proximity of his beloved 
sea. According to Maria Yordansky, “the incessant raids of 
aeroplanes at Tyursevo disturbed his peace, and rendered all 
work impossible. The family was in constant alarm.” 60 He 
decided to spend the last few days before his departure for 
America at the summer home of the playwright Falkovsky, at 
Mustamyaki—also in Finland, but more remote from the fron¬ 
tier. Here he sorely missed the sea, became more irritable and 
fretful. His black despondency was reflected in his last letter 
to Roerich, which came to the painter as a posthumous message: 

September 4, 1919. 

All my misfortunes converge in one: I am homeless. I used to have 
a little home: my house and Finland, to both of which I had grown ac¬ 
customed. With the coming of autumn, of dark nights, it was a joy to 
think of my house with its warmth, its light, and the study which pre¬ 
served the traces of ten years’ work and thought. And it was a joy to 
flee from the city to the quiet and intimacy of my home. Then there was 

been unknown in human history. This is not an exaggeration. But a short time 
ago an opponent of the Soviet government and still in many respects not in agree¬ 
ment with it, I can yet say that in the future the historian, when judging the work 
which the Russian workers have accomplished in one year, will be able to feel 
nothing but admiration for the immensity of the present cultural activity. . . .” 
It is a question of taste as to the literary quality of Gorky’s appeal. To be sure, 
it differs in its blunt straightforwardness from the picturesque metaphors and 
images of Andreyev’s S. O. S. 

59 Native Land — II, pp. 38-39. 

60 Ibid., p. 60. 


173 


War, Revolution, Death 

a big home: Russia, with its powerful foundation, force, and expanse. 
Then, too, there was my most spacious home: creative art, which absorbed 
my soul. Now all this is gone. In place of a cozy home—a cold, freez¬ 
ing, plundered summer house, with broken window panes, surrounded by 
a sullen and hostile Finland. Russia is no more. And my creative power 
is gone too. Like chains, I drag along with me the Bolshevik and my 
sorrow. My articles—are not art. I feel so grippingly empty and fright¬ 
ened without my kingdom, as if I had become utterly defenseless against 
the world. And I have no place to hide either from the autumnal nights 
or from my sorrow, or from my illness. I am threefold an exile: from 
my home, from Russia, and from my art. I am most terribly pained by 
the loss of the last; I experience a nostalgia for “fiction,” similar to home¬ 
sickness for ones motherland. And it is not that I have no time to write 
or that I am not well—nonsense! Plainly, what constituted my creative 
power has simply gone, vanished, perished together with perishing Russia. 
Like heat lightnings flicker the silent reflections of distant storms, but of 
the storm itself with its life—there is nothing. When I reread an old 
work of mine, I wonder: How could I do this? Whence did it come 
into my head? Well, I feel like chatting now; I shall attend to business 
to-morrow. Regarding my Black Maskers. Only in the days of the 
Revolution did I understand that this was not only the tragedy of the 
individual, but the tragedy of the whole revolution, its genuine sad 
countenance. Behold the Revolution, which has kindled lights amidst 
darkness, and is expecting those invited to her feast. Behold her sur¬ 
rounded by the invited ... or uninvited guests? Who are these 
maskers? Chernovs? Lenins? But these know at least Satan. While 
here, lo, are those others, particles of the great human darkness, which 
extinguish the torches. They creep from everywhere, the light is not 
bright for them, the fire does not warm them, and even Satan they 
know not as yet. Black maskers. Then the end of noble Lorenzo. 
Yes, one may draw a complete analogy, by using quotations. How 
did it happen that the tragedy of the individual, which my play was 
intended to express, has become the tragedy of the history of the Revolu¬ 
tion? There is much that is interesting in this. . . . 61 

This is a letter of a broken man and of an artist fallen into 
decay. When a writer looks admiringly back on his old pro¬ 
ductions, there must be something stationary and flaccid about 
his present creative power. In life we begin to reminisce and 

61 Ibid., pp. 40, 41. 


174 Leonid Andreyev 

to ruminate over our past when we are no longer active and too 
busy living for looking backward. In the case of Andreyev this 
observation holds true, in particular: during his active period 
he paid no attention to what he had written and published, but 
thought and spoke only of what he was going to do in the fu¬ 
ture. 62 The war and the revolution must have dried the spring 
of Andreyev’s talent, if he could “wonder” retrospectively at 
his former productions, and become his own commentator. 
The consciousness of being a “threefold exile,” and an exile 
from art above all, weighed heavily on his mind, accelerating 
the end. The last pages of his diary reveal his utter despond¬ 
ency and lack of will to live on. The aeroplane raid which took 
place during his last night at Tyursevo (he stayed there that 
night on purpose, “to test his fate,” which reminds one of his 
escapade on the railroad tracks, supra, p. 29) shook him deeply. 
The next day, September 8, at Mustamyaki, Andreyev recorded 
this raid in his diary, but felt reluctant to relate the event—“so 
repulsive is everything in the world, so unbearably tedious to 
live, to talk, to write, that I lack the strength and the desire to 
scribble down even a few lines. For whom? For what pur¬ 
pose?” The entry on the next day began in the same key: 
“What one might call a genuine disgust with life. Everything 
even in the slightest degree suggesting silliness or ugliness pro¬ 
vokes in me a revulsion, at times a feeling of physical nausea.” 
Yet the end of that entry contained a faint flash, like heat light¬ 
ning, of the former Andreyev: “But the place is beautiful. 
We live high on the hill, all around is a sea of woods, over 
whose smoothness, as though across a real sea, are flitting at 
this moment shadows of clouds. Below is the lake, and in the 
distance are seen N. Kirka, Rayvola. An almost mountainous 
freshness in the air. ... If my mind only permits me, I may 
work and prepare for America.” The contemplation of na¬ 
ture had evidently a bracing effect on Andreyev to his very end. 
One recalls his letter to Lvov-Rogachevsky, in which he spoke 
of the salutary significance of nature for him: “Nature and 

62 See Chukovsky’s statement to this effect, supra, p. 117, and Andreyev’s letter 
to Nemirevich-Danchenko, ibid., footnote 80. 


War, Revolution, Death 175 

nature alone brings me back to the lost equilibrium.” 63 So 
now, three days before his death, broken in body and spirit, 
loathing life and man, Andreyev, at the touch of nature, re¬ 
gained his “equilibrium,” and even began again to plan his trip 
to America. His very last entry, on September io, was a fit¬ 
ting conclusion to his literary life, for it presented a description 
of the aeroplane raid at Tyursevo, written with the freshness, 
simplicity, and fine suggestiveness which he displayed in his best 
days. 64 

Andreyev died two days later, suddenly. On the last day he 
felt better than usual, joked with the children, and conversed 
with their teachers about their studies. At four o’clock in the 
afternoon he went to his bedroom to take a rest. Presently his 
wife, who was working on his notes in the adjacent room, heard 
his call, rushed in, and found him sliding off the bed and gasp¬ 
ing for breath. His last words were: “Anna, I am ill.” He 
remained unconscious till the very end, at six o’clock. His 
death occurred from a hemorrhage of the brain, as had been 
the case with his father. Maria Yordansky, from whose rem¬ 
iniscences these details are taken, describes the body of the 
writer: 

Already arrayed for the coffin, with his head high on white pillows, 
covered to his neck with a white sheet, lay Leonid Nikolayevich. No 
longer were there bitter lines around his mouth, the deep furrow on his 
forehead had smoothed out, his thick black hair showed no grayness. It 
was as if there had not been those heavy years, the oppressive tortures of 
the last days—so young had his face become. Handsome, calm and ma¬ 
jestic, it did not seem yet dead—only a deep, complete peace reposed on 
it. His shut eyes rested. 65 

At the age of forty-eight, having reached fame, success, and 
comparative comfort after a youth of poverty and loneliness, 
Andreyev, like his prototype in The Life of Man, had been 
hurled down to the lower depths. He died a forsaken exile, 

63 Supra, p. 82. 

e* A translation of this entry appeared in my article, “The End of Andreyev,” 
The New Republic, June 28, 1922, pp. i 34 ~ z 35 * 

65 Native Land — I, p. 59. 


176 Leonid Andreyev 

suffering privation, leaving not enough money for his burial ex¬ 
penses. A small group accompanied his body to its last rest, 
most of the mourners, according to Maria Yordansky, consist¬ 
ing of accidental emigrants, who never had any relation to Rus¬ 
sian literature. This friend of his quotes the following lines 
from the page she found inserted in Andreyev’s typewriter— 
the passage was interrupted by the author’s last call for his 
wife: 

Revolution is as unsatisfactory a method for solving differences as war 
is. Once you cannot defeat a hostile idea in any other way than by 
smashing the skull which contains it; once you cannot subdue a hostile 
heart except by piercing it with a bayonet—then, of course, fight. 66 

In this last utterance of his Andreyev proved consistent to 
that despondent outlook which was his throughout his conscious 
life, with the exception of the few brief moments, when he 
clutched pathetically at illusions. He died with hatred for the 
Bolsheviki, with chagrin at the besotted Whites, with indigna¬ 
tion against the Allies, with contempt and scorn for all mankind. 

™ Ibid. t p. 62. 


PART II 

THE MOTIVES AND BACKGROUND OF 
ANDREYEV’S WORK 











I 

INFLUENCES AND KINSHIP 


Avowed influences.—Their nature.—Negative views of Pisarev and Tol¬ 
stoy, of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.—Andreyev not a consistent 
philosopher.—Kinship of the two philosophers to Andreyev.— 
Their common attitudes.—Nietzsche’s memento vivere versus 
Schopenhauer’s resignation.—Coexistence of contradictory ele¬ 
ments in Andreyev.—His nearness to Nietzsche’s passionate rest¬ 
lessness and unreservedness.—His nearness to Schopenhauer’s 
ethical ideal.—Resume: Andreyev’s aptness for adopting nega¬ 
tive rather than positive views. 

In a letter to Lvov-Rogachevsky, written in 1908, Andreyev 
stated that he had been “strongly influenced by Pisarev, then 
by Tolstoy’s ‘What Is My Faith?’—then by Schopenhauer, then 
by Nietzsche.” He went on to say: “The influence of books 
has ended, the one remaining influence being apparently that of 
Schopenhauer. At present I am living—this is my surmise— 
under the sign of Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung ” 1 This 
statement is to be understood in the sense that the four named 
thinkers, though divergent in their ultimate conclusions, con¬ 
tributed in common to Andreyev’s critical attitude toward life’s 
existing forms. Andreyev was hardly susceptible to any other 
kind of influence. Of a solitary, introspective, brooding dis¬ 
position, possessed of a restless, questioning, analytical mind, 
he yielded only to such influences as harmonized with his mental 
make-up. This is evident from his testimony in regard to the 
effect which Tolstoy had on him. 2 He rejected Tolstoy’s pos¬ 
itive doctrine as “something foreign” to him, and was moved 
only by the negative side of his teaching. Again, like nearly all 
of Russia’s youth, he was stimulated by Pisarev, the fiery cham¬ 
pion of Nihilism during the eighteen-sixties, in the direction of 

1 Two Truths, p. 24. 

2 Supra, p. 29. 

179 


180 Leonid Andreyev 

doubting everything and “smashing right and left”—Pisarev’s 
cardinal tenet. Out of his cell in the fortress of St. Peter and 
Paul, Pisarev preached not only destruction, but, what seemed 
to him most constructive, the ideas of Buchner and Moleschott. 
Yet the fact remains that Pisarev appealed to his contempo¬ 
raries and to the following generations primarily and largely 
as a negator and destroyer of conventional beliefs. Andreyev, 
toward the end of his life, even went so far as to charge “Pis- 
arevism” with having poisoned the Russian Intelligentsia, and 
with having laid “the foundation for the great Russian Mob 
Spirit,” 3 by which he signified Bolshevism. 

The influence of Pisarev and Tolstoy on Andreyev’s views, in 
the limited sense just indicated, did not last beyond his boyhood 
years, 4 and being of a purely general character, it did not per¬ 
ceptibly manifest itself in his writings. Even Schopenhauer and 
Nietzsche appealed to Andreyev largely and most lastingly 5 
through their destructive critique. Their positive precepts he 
never accepted wholly, as will be seen later. Thus, we may 
conclude that whatever effect certain thinkers may have had on 
Andreyev, it was not of the sort which changes extant points of 
view or generates new outlooks. Rather did he adapt congen¬ 
ial ideas and opinions of certain kindred spirits, for the en¬ 
hancement and ramification of the basic idea which had been ap¬ 
parently inherent in him. This was a predominantly negative 
attitude. 6 

8 Diary, dated April 30, 1918. 

4 Mme. Andreyev, in describing for me some of her husband’s youthful frolics, 
cited an experience from his Gymnasium days, when he hoaxed his teacher of 
composition by obtaining from him an excellent mark for a paper which was 
cribbed from Pisarev. At college he shook himself free from Pisarev and Tol¬ 
stoy. 

5 Mme. Andreyev showed me a set of Schopenhauer’s main work, in Russian, 
which her husband had preserved since his student years, and cherished to the 
end, proud of the neat bindings of the volumes—an extravagant luxury during 
those days of semi-starvation. I was also shown a volume of Zarathustra, in one 
of the early Russian versions, which was considerably marked and underscored, 
indicating the owner’s repeated ramblings through the pages. 

6 Toward the end of his life, Andreyev reproached himself for having created 
a few positive characters. “I have been a traitor to myself. Born to curse, I 
have distributed indulgences,” he wrote in his diary, April 20, 1918 {Supra, p. 


Influences and Kinship 181 

In his letter to Lvov-Rogachevsky, quoted at the beginning of 
this chapter, Andreyev conjectured that he was “apparently” 
under the influence of Schopenhauer, and that he lived under 
the sign of Die JVelt als Wille und Vorstellung —such was his 
“surmise.” The circumspect words in inverted commas are 
characteristic of Andreyev’s honesty with himself. Disliking 
labels of all sorts, 7 he was particularly wary of applying phil¬ 
osophic terms in his works as well as in his private correspond¬ 
ence, for Andreyev usually avoided subjects which he could not 
absorb so as to discuss them with the ease of authority. Phi¬ 
losophy did not lie within his versatile field. He lacked the calm 
and the methodicalness of a student of philosophic systems, who 
can grasp them, compare them, finally select one system, and 
adhere to it. His mind, all aflame with problems such as we 
call philosophic—life and its value, man, his place in the world 
and his goal—could contemplate and visualize only chaos, es¬ 
chewing order and system. One should therefore take his 
“surmise” with the reserve which the timidity of its tone invites. 

The “influence” of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, of which 
Andreyev speaks in his letter, is to be understood as the stimu¬ 
lating effect which these thinkers exercised on Andreyev, in de¬ 
veloping and strengthening his latent notions and nascent views. 
His extraordinary power of intuition, which we have noted in 
the foregoing pages, 8 prompted him to turn to Schopenhauer 
and Nietzsche, in whom, of all modern philosophers, he could 
find the closest congeniality with his own outlook. Theoretic 
speculation per se did not interest Andreyev, and what drew 
him to these thinkers was the vitality of their ideas, their direct 
concern with earthly life and with the problem of the concrete 
individual. “The main question is, Where does man come in?” 
he wrote to Amfiteatrov 9 anent isms and classifications. Man 
was to him the pivot of the universe, the cardinal problem, and 

7 « , , I am not a realist. What am I, then? A mystic? I do not know. And, 
when all is said, I simply do not understand, and—pardon me I do not accept 
this classification, it appears ridiculous to me.” From his letter to Amfiteatrov, 
supra, p. 121. In a similar vein he wrote to Nemirovich-Danchenko, Goloushev, 
and in his diary. 

8 Supra, p. n 6 ff. 

9 Supra, p. 121 • 


182 Leonid Andreyev 

in this respect he was typical of Russia s Intelligentsia. In 
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche he found a kinship not only because 
their powerful critique of life as it is corresponded with his own 
attitude, but also because their ideas were, in the main, not 
astral or abstract but applicable to flesh-and-blood human beings. 

We may say, then, that Andreyev’s “surmise” is, on the 
whole, correct, as are most of his “intuitions.” Allowing the 
reservation that he was not a rigid disciple and consistent fol¬ 
lower of Schopenhauer, we can still accept his conjecture of liv¬ 
ing “under the sign” of Schopenhauer’s Weltanschauung. 
Consciously or unconsciously—the latter is more probable and 
plausible—Andreyev imbued nearly all of his writings with a 
spirit which is unmistakably Schopenhauerian-Nietzschean. 
To put it more precisely, Andreyev’s negative attitudes—and 
these are his predominant attitudes—tally with the views of 
the two philosophers, often appearing as comments upon them 
and illustrations of them. 

In fusing the critical attitudes of Schopenhauer and Nietz¬ 
sche, in so far as they correspond with those of Andreyev, no 
violence is done to either of the two thinkers. Andreyev could 
find in them many common starting points. Thus, both of them 
reject the duality of matter and spirit, of body and soul, both 
emphasize the unity of life’s driving force, which presents a 
combination of volition, instinct, impulse, intellect, of our 
mental and physical faculties. One calls this force Will-to-live, 
the other, Will-to-power, a difference of great importance in 
regard to the ultimate value or valuelessness of life, but one 
which is ungermane at this juncture of our discussion, where we 
indicate merely points of departure. Again, both of them re¬ 
gard this will as a blind driving force, interminable and insati¬ 
able, because of the limitlessness and endlessness of our wants. 
Hence both of them consider happiness as a negative quantity, 
as a temporary elimination of a want, and both look upon pain 
as the only positive element in life. Both, then, present life as 
composed overwhelmingly of misery, suffering, slavery. Slaves 
of their will, men are on the whole narrowly selfish, greedy, 
cowardly, stupid, in constant need of illusions. Both philoso- 


Influences and Kinship 183 

phers express contempt for state, society, church, and other in- 
stitutions whose raison d’etre is purely negative, namely the con¬ 
trol of men’s inherent selfish and brutal impulses, and, secondly, 
the alleviation of men’s anxiety and fear by means of narcotic 
beliefs and illusions. Both, finally, emphasize the limitation 
and impotence of our intellect—Schopenhauer’s “Sufficient 
Reason,” and Nietzsche’s “Small Reason.” 

This general statement will be illustrated presently, when we 
come to the analysis of Andreyev’s works. In the chapter on 
his early period we shall see that in his treatment of the individ¬ 
ual in his relation to life and the world, Andreyev voices motives 
which are obviously Schopenhauerian, with an occasional hint at 
Nietzsche’s influence (notably in The Abyss, Thought, and Life 
of Vasily Fiveysky). In the next chapter, dealing with his reac¬ 
tion to public events, where the individual problem broadens 
into collective problems, we shall find Andreyev still in accord 
with the negative attitude of the two philosophers toward the 
intrinsic value of social institutions and mass-movements—the 
church, the state, and such of the latter’s concomitants as war 
and revolution. It is in the following chapter, in the discus¬ 
sion of Andreyev’s postulation of general problems, that we 
shall observe his wavering between the positive ideal of Scho¬ 
penhauer and that of Nietzsche. For at this point the diver¬ 
gence between the two thinkers becomes irreconcilable. 

Like Andreyev, Nietzsche was a disciple of Schopenhauer. 
He had to immerse himself in the cool waters of Schopenhauer’s 
disillusioning and disenchanting teaching, as a prerequisite for his 
ascension to the heights of Zarathustra, the forerunner of the 
Superman. But Nietzsche “overcame” his master, freed him¬ 
self from the “Fluch Schopenhauers.” 10 While accepting his 
master’s view on our existence as composed of pain and folly; 
while even enchancing Schopenhauer’s critique of our standards 

10 Nachgelassene IVerke — XI, p. 380, No. 580. My quotations from Nietzsche 
are based on the eleven-volume pocket edition of the Alfred Kroner Verlag, Stutt¬ 
gart, 1921. For Nietzsche’s posthumous writings I have used their more complete 
version in the Nachgelassene IVerke, in 8°, Verlag Naumann, Leipzig, 1901-1903. 
For Der IVille zur Macht, however, I have used volumes IX and X of the Kroner 
edition, where this posthumous work is presented in much fuller form. 


184 Leonid Andreyev 

and illusions, by making it more sweeping and inclusive (to wit, 
in regard to morality), Nietzsche proclaimed his vigorous af¬ 
firmation of life, his memento vivere. By replacing the Will- 
to-live with his Will-to-power as the all-mighty driving force 
of the universe, Nietzsche changed the aspect of a dreary ex¬ 
istence, monotonous and unchangeable, into that of an exuber¬ 
ant process of incessant striving for more life, for a more in¬ 
tense and more beautiful life. This conception of a dynamic, 
everlasting evolution—what Simmel calls die dichterisch- 
philosophische Verabsolutierung der Entwicklungsidee Dar¬ 
wins” n—enabled Nietzsche not only to be hopeful of the fu¬ 
ture, but even to justify the past and the present as continuous 
stages in the onward and upward procession, though each stage 
had to be denounced and overcome as inferior to the stage next 
in succession. Having absorbed Schopenhauer’s negative at¬ 
titude to the forms of life as it is, Nietzsche ultimately used this 
attitude as a basis for his passionate hymn to ever-changing, 
ever-growing, ever-to-be-surpassed life . 12 

In Andreyev one often feels a passionate love for life, even 
in some of his lugubrious writings, whenever he lends life the 
dignity of tragedy, and does not merely present it as a silly 
farce. In such cases—and these are many, as we shall see—one 
is inclined to question Andreyev’s professed adherence to 
Schopenhauer. It were closer to the truth, however, to admit 
the coexistence in Andreyev of contradictory elements. Logi- 

11 Georg Simmel, Schopenhauer und Nietzsche, p. 5 (2nd edition, Miinchen, 
1920). Nietzsche would have hardly subscribed to Simmel’s compliment. In his 
Streifziige eines Unzeitgemdssen, 14 (v. X, pp. 303, 304), and in Der JVille ziir 
Macht, No. 647 (v. IX, pp. 475, 476) ff., Nietzsche definitely condemns Darwin. 
Not struggle for existence, but struggle for power—such, in the main, is Nietzsche’s 
argument, not against evolutionism, of course, but against Darwin. 

12 “Wer, gleich mir, mit irgend einer ratselhaften Begierde, sich lange darum 
bemiiht hat, den Pessimismus in der Tiefe zu denken und aus der halb christlichen, 
halb deutschen Enge und Einfalt zu erlosen, mit der er sich diesem Jahrhundert 
zuletzt dargestcllt hat, namlich in Gestalt der Schopenhauerischen Philosophic 
. . . der hat vielleict ebendamit, ohne dass er es eigentlich wollte, sich die Augen 
fur das umgekehrte Ideal aufgemacht: fur das Ideal des iibermutigsten, leben- 
digsten und weltbejahendsten Menschen, der sich nicht nur mit dem, was war und 
ist, abgefunden und vertragen gelernt hat, sondern es, so *wie es war und ist, 
wieder haben will, in alle Ewigkeit hinaus, unersattlich da capo rufend” . . .— 
Jenseits von Gut und Bose, No. 56 (v. VIII, p. 80). 


Influences and Kinship 185 

cally he “lived under the sign of Die Welt als IVille und Vorstel- 
lung” while by sentiment and temperament he was akin to the 
spirit of Die frohliche Wissenschaft. Like Nietzsche he was 
in his life as in his art, all passion, yearning, restlessness, trans¬ 
pierced with an aching love for life, its drawbacks and defects 
notwithstanding. His style never attained the epic calm and 
the cool beauty of Schopenhauer’s, nor could he ever achieve the 
blissful stage advocated by the philosopher in the following 
characteristic passage: 

... so ist es dagegen der, in welchem die Verneinung des Willens zum 
Leben aufgegangen ist, so arm, freudelos und voll Entbehrungen sein 
Zustand, von aussen gesehen, auch ist, voll innerer Freudigkeit und wahrer 
Himmelsruhe. Es ist nicht der unruhige Lebensdrang, die jubelnde 
Freude, welche heftiges Leiden zur vorhergegangenen oder nachfolgenden 
Bedingung hat, wie sie den Wandel des lebenslustigen Menschen aus- 
machen; sondern es ist ein unerschiitterlicher Friede, eine tiefe Ruhe und 
innige Heiterkeit, ein Zustand, zu dem wir, wenn es uns vor die Augen 
oder die Einbildungskraft gebracht wird, nicht ohne die grosste Sehn- 
sucht blicken konnen, indem wir ihn sogleich als das allein Rechte, alles 
andere unendlich iiberwiegende anerkennen, zu welchem unser besserer 
Geist uns das grosse sapere aude zuruft. Wir fiihlen dann wohl, dass 
jede der Welt abgewonnene Erfiillung unserer Wiinsche doch nur dem 
Almosen gleicht, welches den Bettler heute am Leben erhalt, damit er 
morgen wieder hungere; die Resignation dagegen dem ererbten Landgut: 
es entnimmt den Besitzer alle Sorgen auf immer.” 13 

We do not find this majestic Nirvana mood in Andreyev. 
Rather does he suggest the flaming outbursts of Nietzsche, the 
feverish staccato of his aphorisms hastily proclaimed between 
prolonged periods of suffering. “Was heisst Leben? Leben 
—das heisst: fortwahrend etwas von sich abstossen, das sterben 
will; Leben—das heisst: grausam und unerbitterlich gegen alles 
sein, was schwach und alt an uns, und nicht nur an uns, 
wird. . . .” 14 This dynamic tone, if not exactly the thought 
behind it, might belong to some of Andreyev’s characters, be it 

13 Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, No. 68, p. 437 (v. I, Weichert edition, 
■which is used throughout this essay). 

H Die frohliche Wissenschaft , No. 2 6, p. 94 (v. VI), 


186 Leonid Andreyev 

Dr. Kerzhentsev, or the workman Treich, or the astronomer 
Ternovsky, or Savva, or Haggart. In place of quietism An¬ 
dreyev championed creative energy, “movement, movement, 
movement,” as he wrote with enthusiasm concerning Keller- 
man’s Der Tonnel . 15 He would subscribe to Nietzsche’s 
words: “Das einzige Gluck liegt im Schaffen: ihr alle sollt 
mitschaffen und in jeder Handlung noch dies Gliick haben.” 16 
And he would understand the “divine tremor” of the hero of 
never-ceasing creativeness, about whom Nietzsche tells us suc¬ 
cinctly : 

“Wie will ich Atem holen und die Glieder strecken, wenn ich meine 
Last auf die letzte Hohe getragen haben werde!”—so dachte oft der Held 
unterwegs. Aber als er oben war und die Last niederwarf, da tat er 
nicht so,—da bezwang er auch noch seine Miidigkeit: und hierbei lief 
ihm ein gottlicher Schauer iiber den Leib . 17 

For temperamentally Andreyev could not bear mental repose. 
Maxim Gorky tells us with what hatred Andreyev used to recall 
one of his high-school teachers who was fond of quoting a cer¬ 
tain philosopher, to the effect that “true wisdom is reposeful.” 
“But I know,” protested Andreyev, “that the best men of the 
world are painfully restless. To the devil with quiet wis¬ 
dom!” 18 

Beside his general tone and temperament, Andreyev came 
closer to Nietzsche than to Schopenhauer in his critique of 
established standards, notably with respect to the moral prob¬ 
lem. Where Schopenhauer stood in awe before man’s “mys¬ 
terious” feeling of sympathy , 19 and prescribed it as a positive 
precept in man’s conduct, supplementing the negative maxim of 
harming no one (Neminem laede; omnes, quantum potes, 
juva 20 ), Andreyev expressed his contempt for conventional 

15 Collected. Works of Andreyev — XV, p. 239 ( Enlightenment edition which is 
used throughout this essay, unless otherwise indicated). 

10 Nachgelassene IVerke — XII p. 361, No. 685. 

17 Ibid., p. 255, No. 93. 

18 Gorky’s reminiscences, in A Book on Andreyev, p. 9. 

19 He speaks of Mitleid as “erstaunenswiirdig, ja, mysterios,” “das grosse Mys- 
terium der Ethik, ihr Urphanomenon.” Grundlage der Moral, No. 16, p. 355 (v. 
III). 

20 Ibid., pp. 360, 372, 


Influences and Kinship 187 

goodness and justice, and for degrading pity {Judas; Dark¬ 
ness). Yet it was precisely on the ethical question that Andre¬ 
yev eventually diverged from Nietzsche and attempted to join 
Schopenhauer. In The Ocean, Haggart cuts a poor figure as 
the protagonist of Nietzsche’s Will-to-power, who tramples 
upon truth, justice and pity, when these interfere with his on¬ 
ward march. On the other hand, Andreyev’s positive charac¬ 
ters, such as Werner and Musya, in The Seven That Were 
Hanged, or David Leiser, in Anathema, approach Schopen¬ 
hauer’s ideal of the man who, having resigned his Will-to-live, 
and having thereby renounced his selfish motives and desires, 
rises triumphant over life, and merges with his fellow beings 
in an all-absorbing feeling of love and compassion. 

Thus we shall find Andreyev frequently recalling to our mind 
the two keen evaluators, now fusing their negative appraisals, 
now obviously coming closer to one than to the other, now wav¬ 
ering between the two. For, to sum up, Andreyev was not of a 
philosophic mind, which performs a double function—of setting 
up questions, and of solving them in a logical and systematic 
way. Andreyev’s mind had an aptitude for the first part of this 
function, and it could find itself in accord with a variety of 
queries and doubts. But whenever he attempted to introduce 
harmony into the chaos that he had visualized all his life, he 
vacillated. He quailed before the task of answering questions 
and reconciling contradictions. Hence his ultimate divergence 
from the thinkers whose negative views he so readily adapted 
and assimilated. 


II 


EARLY PERIOD: PROBLEMS OF THE 
INDIVIDUAL 

Andreyev’s first stories “made to order.”—Gorky’s discernment. An¬ 
dreyev’s individuals compared with those of Gorky, Dostoyevsky, 
Chekhov.—Fear of life.—Loneliness, isolation, chasm between 
man and man.—Illusionism and disenchantment.—Solution?— 
Zarathustra’s suggestion.—The leper’s attitude.—Symbolism of 
The Wall. —Andreyev’s broadening skepsis.—The slumbering 
brute in The Abyss. —Thought the traitor.—The tragedy of 
faith in Life of Vasily Fiveysky. —Schopenhauerian motives.— 
Their epitome in The Life of Man. —Someone-in-Grey=Will-tO' 
live.—Man’s curse and deliverance in death. 

Andreyev’s first attempts at fiction bore the stamp of “made 
to order” literature. Requested to write a story for Easter 
or Christmas, he followed the traditional path. Like Dosto¬ 
yevsky and Tolstoy, he would endeavor to regenerate a soul by 
awakening the supposedly ever-present albeit dormant good in 
man’s heart. Thus in his first story, Bargamot and Garaska, 
a callous policeman of a rough neighborhood and a hopeless 
drunkard and law offender are both of a sudden ennobled by 
Easter sentiments, and experience the sensation of genuine 
brotherhood. A similar motive is treated in From the Life of 
Captain Kablukov, where the drinking, swearing officer forgives 
his orderly, who has pocketed, for family purposes, the money 
given him for the purchase of drinks and provisions. The sight 
of the sleeping servant, with his bovine face and protruding bare 
toes, suddenly makes the captain realize the humanness of one 
whom he has been maltreating and utterly ignoring as a fellow 
being. Altogether one may indicate about half a dozen 
sketches of that period which reiterate the motive of man’s 

188 


Problems of the Individual 189 

good impulse coming to the fore and triumphing. But this mo¬ 
tive, so powerful and compelling in Dostoyevsky, sounds “to 
order” and almost maudlin in Andreyev. The uplifting effect 
of the church service on an embittered youth (A Holiday) ; the 
energizing and reconciling influence upon a misanthropic rough¬ 
neck, of the task of performing aid and service during a public 
calamity (On the River) ; the noble indignation of the young 
lawyer when told by his cynical senior partner that the defend¬ 
ant whose case has just been won by able and sincere pleading 
is as a matter of fact guilty (His First Fee) ; the pathetic grief 
of the journeyman bringing a present to his sick little assistant, 
and finding that he has died in the hospital (The Present) ; the 
predicament of a thief setting out for a prearranged robbery, 
and being prevented from committing it by the pitiful yelping 
of a puppy which persistently follows him, and which he is 
finally obliged to take into his arms and carry back home (A 
Robbery Planned) —these are more or less felicitous subjects 
for a psychologist, and are within the range of Andreyev’s 
talent. But in these stories and sketches the author appears to 
force the issue for the sake of the moral, a fault practically 
absent in his more mature productions. 

Yet it was Bargamot and Garaska which drew Maxim Gorky 
toward Andreyev, and served as the starting point for the long 
and mutually meaningful friendship of the two writers. In his 
reminiscences Gorky relates how he felt in that ordinary story, 
beside the presence of a “robust talent,” “the author’s hidden 
smart smile, a smile of mistrust in the fact—and that smile eas¬ 
ily reconciled one to the inevitable, forced sentimentalism of 
Easter and Christmas literature.” 1 Gorky detected the hid¬ 
den clue to Andreyev’s true self, and, indeed, helped his pro¬ 
tege to extricate himself from journalistic hackneyed sham, and 
to express his genuine personality. 

The stories of Andreyev’s early period reflect both his per¬ 
sonal state of mind (constitutional and enhanced by adverse 
circumstances) and the mood of the Intelligentsia at the end of 
the last century, politically oppressed and doomed to inaction, 

1 A Book on Andreyev, p. 5. 


190 Leonid Andreyev 

seeking in introspective analysis a way out of mental chaos. 
His note differed greatly from that of Maxim Gorky, his senior 
by two years, and already internationally famous at the time of 
Andreyev’s debut. Gorky knew more hardship and want than 
Andreyev, but his early life was spent largely out of doors, in 
vagabondage, on the boundless steppes, on wide seashores, in 
contact with freedom-loving, nomadic men and women. Gorky 
emerged from the crucible of misery and penury full of love for 
life, which he regarded as potentially good and fair, and full of 
hatred for those who make life ugly and mean. His optimism 
called for vigorous activity, for a thorough cleansing of the 
Augean stables of tsaristic Russia, and it appeared as a stimu¬ 
lating relief from the melancholy apathy of Chekhov’s ne’er- 
do-wells. But Leonid Andreyev had been a typical poverty- 
stricken Russian intellectual, leading an anaemic existence within 
the walls of his ill-ventilated and poorly heated room, silent, 
introspective, knowing life through books and contemplation 
rather than from direct contact and personal experience, and 
by his whole make-up incapable of optimistic moods and notions. 
Hence his gloomy observations and rayless conclusions. Gorky 
idolized Man (“Che-lo-vyek! Eto zvuchit gordo!” M-a-n! 
This sounds loftily! 2 ), and appealing to man’s dignity and self- 
respect he spurred one to deeds, to revolt, to struggle. Andre¬ 
yev flattered no man or idol, but questioned everything and 
everybody, and in irritating one’s mental peace he stimulated 
self-analysis. 

In such a mood Andreyev approached the subject matter of 
his early stories—lonely, miserable wretches. With keen anal¬ 
ysis he dissected individuals, “turned their souls inside out,” to 
borrow a favorite phrase from Dostoyevsky. Like Dostoyev¬ 
sky, he chose the crushed personalities, the morbid, the patho¬ 
logical, the “humiliated and offended.” But whereas Dostoyev¬ 
sky surrounded disease, crime and suffering with the halo of love 
and compassion, Andreyev failed to mollify life’s festering sores 
with the balsam of sympathy and pity. His characters, like 

2 From Satin’s monologue in Gorky’s play, At the Bottom [A Night-Lodging, or 
The Submerged ), Act V, 


Problems of the Individual 19 1 

most of Gorky’s, were solitary individuals, but while the latter 
breathed rebellion, and appeared victorious even in defeat, those 
of Andreyev exuded impotent despair and writhed under the 
whip of circumstance. Again, to make one more comparison, 
both Chekhov and Andreyev endowed their heroes or rather 
victims with a hypertrophied self-consciousness. Yet there is 
an important difference in the mode by which these writers had 
their characters manifest their “ailment.” In Chekhov atmos¬ 
phere, mood, always prevailed. His sad, luckless individuals 
suffered from the sense of their futility and will-lessness; they 
succumbed to impotent Sehnsucht. In Andreyev the dominant 
factor was not feeling but thought. His unfortunate individ¬ 
uals went through all sufferings, pains, and passions in the tor¬ 
ture-chamber of vivisecting thought; they perished as victims 
of self-analysis. Into the existence of a gray, commonplace, 
cowed person he would introduce a moment of intense thinking, 
which suddenly illuminated the drab sordidness, and lent signifi¬ 
cance and redemption to the momentarily sublimated thinker. 

Andreyev’s denizens of the cellars do not speak in the loud, 
self-assertive tones of Gorky’s ex-men. They are weak, 
crushed. They lie in the dust, burdened with fear of life {In 
the Basement). Life appears to them as blind, inexorable, 
malignant Chance. Andrey Nikolayevich (At the Window) 
represents what Whitman glorifies as the “divine average,” 
hence a generic type. His whole life is a series of fears and 
melancholy conjectures. Life to him is “a strange and terrible 
thing” replete with incomprehensible surprises. To-day we are 
alive, not suspecting that to-morrow a chance carriage may run 
over us and crush us to death. The wife of his fellow clerk 
goes to church, to give thanks to God for the monetary reward 
her husband had received at the office, and this very money is 
stolen from her in the church. 

And wherever you turn, you encounter coarse, noisy, bold persons who 
ever push ahead and are prone to grab everything. Cruel-hearted and 
ruthless, they storm their way forward, whistling and howling, and tram¬ 
ple upon others, upon weak folk. Only a squeak comes up from those 


192 Leonid Andreyev 

who are crushed, but no one cares even to listen. That’s just what they 
deserve . 3 

And when Chance knocks at the window of Andrey Nikolayev¬ 
ich, and tempts him to turn a new page in his monotonous drudg¬ 
ery—to marry a handsome girl from across the street, the man 
“at the window” hesitates and finally spurns the opportunity. 
One cannot trust Chance. It—Chance, life—is not merely a 
potential alternative of good or bad luck. It is a certain calam¬ 
ity. Andreyev’s individuals share the attitude of Thomas 
Hardy toward malicious fate. This mistrust of life is subse¬ 
quently symbolized in the last scene of Andreyev’s Life of Man, 
where the Drunkards prefer delirium tremens to life: “Better 
horror than life.” Only the discerners, those who perceive the 
world with the eyes of Schopenhauer, may overcome this fear 
of life. Savva, the destroyer, for instance (in Savva), when 
asked by his sister whether he is afraid, answers: 

I ? So far I haven’t been, and I don’t ever expect to be afraid. 
Nothing can be more awful than having once been born. It’s like ask¬ 
ing a drowned man whether he is afraid of getting wet. . . . No. If 
thus far I haven’t become frightened, though I have peered into life, 
then there can be nothing more frightful in store. Life, yes. I embrace 
with my eyes the earth, the whole of it, all this paltry globe, and I can 
find nothing more terrible on it than man and human life . 4 

Gorky’s individuals are solitary, with the solitude of the 
strong, of the self-sufficient. Andreyev’s characters are lonely, 
with a pathetic loneliness. Communion with others is an essen¬ 
tial need for them, but they are forced to the conclusion that 
communion is impossible, that human interrelations are skin 
deep, that mutual understanding is unrealizable. This loneli¬ 
ness is felt not only by the submerged outcasts doomed to vege¬ 
tate in some dank corner of a cellar, but even by those who ap¬ 
parently luxuriate in sociability. The prominent dignitary (in 
Peace) seems particularly happy and amiable toward his guests; 

3 Works — V, p. 323. 

4 Works—VI> pp. 177, 178, 


Problems of the Individual 193 

he takes a lively part in the jolly, friendly conversation, laughs 
abundantly, even to the point of tears. But 

he scarcely thought for himself how happy he was, when he was drawn to 
solitude. Not to his study, nor to his bedroom, but to the most solitary 
place, and lo—he hid himself in the place whither one goes only in time 
of need, hid himself like a boy afraid of punishment. In this solitary 
place he spent several minutes, hardly breathing from fatigue, delivering 
his spirit and body to death, communing with it in silence, sullen as the 
silence of the grave. 5 

Loneliness in the midst of multitudes is a characteristic trait of 
city life, and Andreyev uses this theme again and again in demon¬ 
strating the fallacies of civilization (The City, The Curse of the 
Beast). People meet one another, rub elbows, transact af¬ 
fairs, perform together all sorts of functions, yet remain igno¬ 
rant of one another and mutually indifferent. Here are four 
persons meeting regularly once a week for a game of whist 
(The Grand Slam). For years these human beings have spent 
several hours each week in close proximity, yet all they know 
of one another is their names. One of them causes an unfore¬ 
seen annoyance and upsets the monotonous regularity, when he 
suddenly falls dead at the card table. The remaining players 
realize for the first time that they know nothing about their 
dead companion, not even his address, nor whether he has any 
kin. The dramatic effect of death is shown when back at the 
table one of the players opens the cards of his dead partner, 
and discovers that for the first time in their long experience 
these cards formed that rare hand in whist—a grand slam. 
“And my partner will never know that he has a grand slam!” 

Solitude is most oppressive for those who eagerly crave com¬ 
munion, who seek to understand and to be understood. The 
poor lover who pours out his heart before the girl of his dreams, 
is jeered at by her and by the multitude at the masquerade ball 
{Laughter). He wears a mask, a funny mask of a Chinaman, 
which grotesquely belies the sincerity of his assertions. This 
lack of mutual understanding, this solitude of the soul, is a trag- 
6 Works—X11, pp. 251, 252. 


194 Leonid Andreyev 

edy not infrequent among persons externally intimate with one 
another. In vain does the lover try to probe the conscience of 
his mistress (The Lie). In spite of her assurances and his own 
ardent wish to believe her, he is tormented by uncertainty, by 
the impossibility of proving whether she is telling the truth or 
lying. In his agony he kills her, hoping thus to destroy the 
source of his doubts. Alas, death does not end bewildering 
dilemmas, it makes them infinitely more sinister by clamping on 
them the mystery of silence. His mistress is dead, but the Lie 
is intangible, and will forever hiss into his ears like “a little 
snake” (the Russian word for “lie” is “lozh,” a terse and hiss¬ 
ing syllable), driving him mad. The excruciating pain of si¬ 
lence brings Father Ignaty, too, to the verge of insanity (Si¬ 
lence). Silence is enveloping the grave of his daughter, whose 
reason for committing suicide he can never know. Silence con¬ 
ceals the thoughts and feelings of his wife, whose tongue has 
become paralyzed at the news of her daughter’s death. And he 
madly runs about, lashed by silence; he rushes from the wide- 
open inscrutable eyes of his speechless wife to the dumb grave 
of his daughter, and back again to the silent walls of his house, 
crying, screaming for a word, for an answer to his anguished 
query. 

This tragedy of the chasm between parent and child appears in 
many of Andreyev’s stories. Great is the solitude of ado¬ 
lescent Pavel (In Fog), ill with an unclean disease, the result 
of indiscretion, promiscuity, but primarily the result of the prud¬ 
ish wall between parents and children in regard to the myster¬ 
ies of sex. Alone in his room, tearing his heart in vain yearn¬ 
ing for the irrevocable purity of his past feelings and sentiments, 
Pavel is yet not so pathetically lonely as when his father enters, 
and engages him in conversation. Suspecting something ab¬ 
normal behind Pavel’s moroseness, his enlightened father deliv¬ 
ers himself of a diplomatically cautious statement on the dan¬ 
gers of commercialized vice, quoting eloquent figures and sta¬ 
tistics. This attempt at communion, at coming closer to his 
son, is too clumsy and—too late. Still more tragic is the wall 
between members of the same family, when such attempts at 


Problems of the Individual 195 

mutual harmony prove hopelessly futile, as in the masterly 
sketch, Into the Dark Faraway. The prodigal son returns 
after a long absence. His father, his little sister, his grand¬ 
mother, the old servant, the whole home environment, are con¬ 
spiring to win back and assimilate the strange young man who 
has rebelled against his luxurious surroundings and has re¬ 
nounced them for the life of a vagabond. During the few days 
of his sojourn with the family the air in the home becomes heavy 
with unuttered antagonism between the two categories, that of 
complacent smugness and that of free abandon. One is made 
to feel keenly the incompatibility, the irreconcilability of the two 
elements, mainly because they are unable to understand each 
other’s sentiments and predilections. In the scene between the 
father and the son we perceive the impassable chasm which can 
yawn between individuals, no matter how close their blood re¬ 
lation may be. 

From this reality, this life of pain, misery, impotent fear and 
unbridgeable solitude, Andreyev prompts his characters to at¬ 
tempt an escape into an illusory world. Thus, in The For¬ 
eigner, the gentle-hearted student, weary of his coarse, brutal 
environment, of his vodka-swilling, balalaika-strumming, fist¬ 
fighting colleagues, closes his eyes to the actual present, and 
lives in his phantasmagoric Abroad, where life and men are 
noble and exceedingly beautiful. In Once There Lived we en¬ 
counter two doomed hospital patients, a hard taciturn merchant 
and a gushing jolly deacon, both of whom are desperately cling¬ 
ing to rapidly vanishing life, and whose disillusionment is pa¬ 
thetic. The pathos appears dual, that of embracing an illu¬ 
sion, and that of disenchantment. When the universally kicked 
and abused dog, Snapper, in the story by that name, is treated 
with unexpected kindness by transient summer folk, and is grad¬ 
ually converted to faith in human beings, we are moved by the 
ardent gratitude and ecstatic joy displayed by the erstwhile mis¬ 
anthrope. Then autumn comes, the kind people return to the 
city, naturally without their newly acquired canine friend, and 
once again we are moved by the emotion of the dog howling in 
despair on the forsaken porch. A bitter complaint is heard 


196 Leonid Andreyev 

in that howling against some unknown Deceiver responsible for 
our flights and falls. The same note is felt in Little Peter in 
the Country. The anaemic, scrofulous urchin, Peter, languish¬ 
ing in the barber shop where his life consists of an interminable 
fetching of hot water and constant abuse at the hands of his 
superiors, weaves a dream of another world. He does not vis¬ 
ualize this world in any concrete form, but he endows it with 
delightful negative features, such as the absence of a master and 
of bullying assistants. One morning his mother takes him to 
the country place of the family where she serves as a cook. The 
dream assumes shape and form. The city-bred child is struck 
with amazement at the sudden opening of wide vistas, of fields 
and forests. Peter gradually overcomes the awe inspired by the 
new world, makes friends with the mysterious forest, enjoys the 
sensation of soft earth under his bare feet, goes bathing in 
the cool stream, and even obtains a fishing rod from a fellow 
adventurer. The new life regenerates the sickly lad, becomes 
convincing reality to him. Just then a note from the barber 
arrives, demanding the immediate return of the boy. It re¬ 
quires a few grave moments for little Peter to distinguish be¬ 
tween reality and fantasy. When he finally realizes that the 
blurred image of the far-away master is a fact, while the fishing 
rod in his hands is but a phantom, he naturally falls to the 
ground and bawls vehemently. He, too, has been deceived, led 
to believe in a “different” life which turns out to be a mirage 
lasting but a brief moment. Brief is the duration of earthly il¬ 
lusions, too brief for possessing any value as an escape from 
sordid reality. Its value is symbolized in The Little Angel. 
Sashka, a naughty boy embittered against all nice people, be¬ 
comes enraptured with a wax doll, an angel, hanging on a Christ¬ 
mas tree at a charity party. He obtains the toy by wheedling, 
and brings it to his home reeking with profanity and alcohol. 
Before lying down to sleep on his bunch of rags, he hangs the 
angel up over the stove, so as to have a full view of it from his 
corner. The angel embodies for him all that is kind and good 
and beautiful, all that is not of this wretched world, and in bliss- 


Problems of the Individual 


197 


ful contemplation he falls asleep. In the meantime the Great 
Illusion, warmed up by the stove, begins to melt, slowly shrinks 
in size, drips, and is eventually reduced to a greasy spot on the 
floor. Sic transit. . . . 

Does Andreyev offer any solution at this stage of his develop¬ 
ment? There is a suggestion of suicide as a way out, in Sergey 
Petrovich y which, incidentally, is the first of his stories to con¬ 
tain a definitely Nietzschean note. Sergey Petrovich is one of 
the many-too-many, weak, diffident, gray, amorphous. As in 
most of Andreyev’s early stories, this insignificant existence is 
suddenly sublimated by the stimulus of intense thinking. A 
copy of Nietzsche’s Also sprach Zarathustra has fallen into his 
hands. The boldness, vigor, newness and brilliance of this 
unique book strike Sergey Petrovich as if by lightning. He is 
regenerated by the new vision which flares up in the grayness of 
his life: 

It was the vision of the Superman, of that inconceivable yet human 
creature that had realized all its latent possibilities, and was full master 
of power, happiness and freedom. It was a strange vision. Brilliant to 
the point of hurting one’s eyes and heart, it remained dim and vague in 
its features. Wondrous and ineffable, it was yet simple and life-like. 
And in its bright light Sergey Petrovich examined his life, and it ap¬ 
peared to him quite new and interesting, like a familiar face in the glare 
of a conflagration . 6 

Andreyev does not belong to those facile pseudo-Nietzscheans 
who endow their characters with the Zarathustra phraseology 
and let them pass as supermen. The contradictory adjectives 
in the quoted passage show the young author’s appreciation of 
the complexity and esoteric quality of Nietzsche’s masterpiece. 
And so Sergey Petrovich, visualizing the grandeur of the Super¬ 
man, is sufficiently honest with himself to admit the hopelessness 
of his aspiring to that dazzling height. Not all who say, Lord! 
Lord! will be saved. Not all who quote Zarathustra can enter 
the kingdom of the Superman. Sergey Petrovich finds himself 
6 Works — II, p. 246. 


198 Leonid Andreyev 

capable of executing only one of Zarathustra’s precepts, namely: 
“Manchen misrath das Leben: ein Giftwurm frisst sich ihm an’s 
Herz. So moge er zusehn, dass ihm das Sterben um so mehr 
gerathe.” 7 

But the motive of suicide as an escape from the sad and sick 
world does not recur in Andreyev. One’s personal withdrawal 
from the vale of tears and folly leaves this vale unchanged, and 
the problem unsolved. “Though dying every second, we are 
immortal like the gods,” wails the leper in The Wall, the grue¬ 
some sketch which perhaps sums up Andreyev’s attitude toward 
life at that early period (1901). All struggle seems futile in 
face of the impregnable indifferent wall towering to the skies. 
On this side of the wall swarm lepers, idiots, semi-skeletons, 
brutes, who fight among themselves, gnaw and devour one an¬ 
other, or engage in a ghastly danse macabre. Some madmen 
refuse to succumb to the tyranny of the wall, and attack it with 
their heads and breasts, bespattering its callous stones with their 
blood and brains. The wall stands dull and immovable. Is 
the struggle worth while? One leper cynically observes about 
those who vainly try to smash the wall or climb over it: “They 
are fools . . . They think that there is light beyond. But it is 
dark there also, and there too are lepers dragging themselves 
along, and entreating to be killed.” 

This was a dangerous thought, one which was apt to find a 
hearing among Russian society at the beginning of the twentieth 
century. Russian life was stifling. The bureaucratic regime 
loomed like an impregnable wall, rendering all efforts and aspi¬ 
rations futile and hopeless. Education continued to be largely 
a farce, rigidly circumscribed and so directed that its main pur¬ 
pose seemed to consist in incapacitating the students for mental 
activity. In protest sporadic disturbances broke out among uni¬ 
versity students, which made any regular academic work impos¬ 
sible, and which brought about severe punishments upon the 
students, flogging by cossacks, imprisonment and exile, or forci¬ 
ble recruitment into the army. The press was muzzled and 
heavily penalized for ambiguous expressions suggesting criticism 

7 Also sprach Zarathustra: “Vom freien Tode.” 


Problems of the Individual 


199 


of the Government. Writers and publicists, like Korolenko, 
Amfiteatrov, Gorky, Peshekhonov, and others, were exiled or 
silenced or imprisoned. It was difficult for an enlightened per¬ 
son not to be in opposition to the dark forces of the administra¬ 
tion, but the number of educated persons was so small that their 
opposition, unless backed by the masses, amounted to smashing 
one’s head at a stone wall. The peasantry was still inert in its 
bulk, apathetically suffering and fatalistically submitting to in¬ 
justice and oppression. The only class which grew rapidly con¬ 
scious, intelligent and ready for self-sacrifice, was that of the 
city workmen. The workshop and the machine proved power¬ 
ful factors in arousing the simple Russian from his lethargy, and 
in urging him to replace his passive nonresistance by dynamic 
struggle. Though small in numbers and of recent birth, the 
Russian proletariat became the ally of the Intelligentsia in the 
common conflict with autocracy. But even the combined effort 
seemed fruitless to skeptical minds, who could not help observ¬ 
ing the numerical and material inequality of the two opposing 
camps. Between the mighty Government bristling with bayo¬ 
nets and sabres, on one hand, and the small group of the revolu¬ 
tionary Intelligentsia and city workmen, on the other, lay the 
gray mass of indifferent humanity. Gorky and his circle dis¬ 
regarded this apparent inequality of the struggle, and joyfully 
exalted the “madness of the brave.” Andreyev’s skepticism, 
his merciless exposition of life’s misery and stupidity, of the 
“blood-bespattered wall,” was apt to exert a chilling effect on 
the impressionable young generation. Yet, though questioning 
the reasonableness of the struggle, though doubting the outcome 
of the unequal conflict, Andreyev did not condemn the efforts of 
the fighters. There is an illuminating passage at the end of 
The Wall: 

And once more a mighty stream of human bodies broke out into a roar, 
and with all their strength hurled themselves against the wall. And 
again, and over and over again it was rolled back, until fatigue super¬ 
vened, and a deathlike sleep, and stillness. But I, the leper, was close 
to the wall, and saw that it began to quake . . . and that the fear of 
falling ran through its stones. 


200 Leonid Andreyev 

“It is falling, brothers! It is falling,” I cried. 

“Thou are mistaken, leper,” replied my brothers. 

And then I began to question them: 

“Supposing it does stand, what then? Is not every corpse a step 
toward the top? We are many, and our lives a burden. Let us strew 
the ground with corpses; upon them let us heap yet other corpses; and so 
mount to the top. And if there be left but one—he will see a new 
world.” 

And I gave a cheerful glance of hope around—and was met only by 
backs, indifferent, fat, and weary. . . . 8 

This is not very encouraging, but of the two possible attitudes 
which Andreyev suggests toward life, that of Sergey Petrovich 
and that of the leper, the latter is surely the braver and socially 
more beneficial alternative. If life is senseless and cruel, then 
let us at least perish in battle, that our bodies may—perhaps— 
fertilize the ground for coming generations. And even if this 
last hope is but an illusion, who can dare to scorn the audacity 
and resignation of the wall assailants? In Russia even the con¬ 
servative elements regarded with respect the Decembrists, the 
Narodovoltsy, the Social-Revolutionary terrorists, those men 
and women who were absolutely free from selfish motives, and 
joyously mounted the scaffold for the sake of the mysterious 
“people.” Russian youths, particularly college students, were 
looked upon as the pride and hope of the nation, as the advance 
guard in the endless battle for freedom and equality. Noblesse 
oblige. Owing to the fact that the public expected much from 
the students, worshipped and flattered them, the students were 
imbued with a feeling of responsibility, and endeavored to main¬ 
tain their banner high and unsullied. The socially minded stu¬ 
dent presented, indeed, a fine, almost ascetic type, noble, idealis¬ 
tic, self-sacrificing. 

But the skepticism of Andreyev knows no bounds, and it at¬ 
tacks our holiest beliefs. His story, The Abyss (1902), 
aroused a storm of indignation and protest. The author was ac¬ 
cused of slandering Russian youth and human nature in general. 


8 Works — 111 , p. 100. 


Problems of the Individual 


201 


The Abyss is a moral catastrophe from which, according to 
Andreyev, none can boast immunity. In the first half of the 
story we are charmed with the purity and integrity of a couple 
of college students, Nemovetsky and his girl friend. They are 
on a stroll in the city outskirts. Though in love with each other, 
in their chaste modesty they discuss everything on earth except 
that which absorbs their entire beings. They dream aloud of 
lofty castles, and lose their way in the oncoming twilight. 
Rambling through the field they come upon three tramps, who 
let them pass, but soon leap in pursuit. Nemovetsky is knocked 
unconscious and thrown into a ravine. Before quite losing his 
senses he faintly hears the shrieks of horror and despair coming 
from his companion. Late in the evening he revives, realizes 
what has happened, and goes in search of his friend, shouting, 
screaming, half mad with grief. Finally he stumbles upon her 
numb body. In vain does he try to bring her back to conscious¬ 
ness. While stroking her hands and face, and trying to cover 
up her body with the tattered clothes, Nemovetsky becomes 
aware of the beast arising in him. He is horrified, he shouts at 
the top of his voice, as if entreating some one to save him from 
his unsuspected self; he frantically endeavors to resuscitate his 
comrade for self-defense, for his defense. The brute proves 
the stronger, and he plunges into the Abyss. 

The sordidness of the story need not befog the problem it 
raises. The Abyss is the first of Andreyev’s attempts at broad¬ 
ening and deepening the range of his themes. Henceforth he 
will time and again probe our inner self, analyzing our motives 
and impulses, and endeavoring to gauge the relative strength of 
our instinct and intellect. In this, and in the two stories to be 
discussed next, we find an adumbration of the later Andreyev, 
the postulator of such general problems as reason and faith. 
Nemovetsky thinks he knows himself, but it is only his intellec¬ 
tual, thinking, reasoning self that he may wager on. He is un¬ 
aware and therefore horrified at the advent of his dormant self 
composed of brutal instincts, of animalistic impulses, which 
slumber under the flimsy mask of intellect and morality, but 
emerge unexpectedly, and, unleashed, drag him irresistibly into 


202 Leonid Andreyev 

the Abyss. The fact that Nemovetsky is not at all extraordi¬ 
nary but represents the average, rank and file young Intelligent¬ 
sia, lends the question a general, public import. Are all of us 
potential Nemovetskys? Does the Abyss yawn, under a thin 
cover, for any one of those beautiful, saintly, altruistic, heroic 
persons who constitute the wonderful Russian youth? The af¬ 
firmative answer implied in Andreyev’s story provoked the re¬ 
sentment of a considerable portion of society who reproached 
the young writer for depicting the sordid and filthy instead of 
portraying the beautiful and uplifting. 9 More than once did 
Andreyev dare to attack popular fetiches and dethrone ac¬ 
claimed idols, at the risk of arousing enmity and resentment. 
This was not an iconoclastic tendency for the sake of icono- 
clasm, or pour epater les bourgeois, but an earnest motive which 
continually grew in intensity—to explore man, to understand 
and explain one’s inner self. 

In the same year Andreyev wrote his profound study, 
Thought , which became the subject of serious discussion in 
circles of psychologists and psychiatrists. This is another 
demonstration of man’s deceit and conceit in presuming 
self-knowledge. Dr. Kerzhentsev is the victim of a hyper¬ 
trophied intellect. He has been a proud believer in the om¬ 
nipotence of his reasoning faculty, in the absolute authority of 
his thought over all his actions and manifestations. Even his 
passions and emotions he believes to be motivated by his reason, 
for experimental purposes. “How foreign I am to all these 
human beings, and how lonely in the world—I, forever incar¬ 
cerated in this head, in this prison,” he observes in one of those 
moments when the weight of thought oppresses him to the point 
of madness. Thought! Thought! He has loved and wor¬ 
shipped it, has used it and played with it, has learned to bend 
and thrust it, to brandish and control it, as a skilful fencer mas¬ 
ters his rapier. Coldly he resolves to murder the husband of 
the woman who once rejected him. Not from jealousy and 
vindictiveness (he spurns the suggestion of being impelled by 
mere impulses), but from a desire to test the power of his intel- 

0 Supra, p. 71 ff. 


Problems of the Individual 


203 


lect. With mathematical precision he works out a triplex plan: 
to gain the complete confidence of the marked victim, to mislead 
public opinion into believing him, Dr. Kerzhentsev, subject to 
fits of insanity, and thus to escape punishment for the crime, and 
thirdly, to have the prospective widow feel, though unable to 
prove, the sanity and cold scheming of the murderer. His think¬ 
ing apparatus works faultlessly, and with immense satisfaction 
he convinces himself of his power over ordinary beings guided 
not by reason alone. He triumphs over all obstacles by the 
sheer force of his steel-hard, obedient, supple thought, which 
(he says) 

lifted me upon the summit of a high mountain, and I saw how far be¬ 
low me swarmed little people with their petty animal passions, with their 
eternal dread of life and death, with their churches, liturgies and prayers. 
Was I not great and free and happy? Like a mediaeval baron secluded 
in his impregnable castle, as though in an eagle’s nest, proudly and im¬ 
periously surveying the valleys below—so was I, invincible and proud in 
my castle, behind these cranium bones. Tsar over myself, I also was a 
tsar over the world. 10 

The grandiose “castle” collapses, however, at an unexpected 
moment. The complex psychological problem brilliantly solved, 
his victim killed with meticulous adherence to the plan, the pub¬ 
lic duped by his clever simulation of insanity, the victor remains 
alone in his room, with his faithful slave—thought. And here 
occurs the “betrayal.” The castle turns into a prison, the slave 
into a master. Reason no longer serves him, but mocks, tyran¬ 
nizes over, maddens him. A terrible thought enters his mag¬ 
nificent cranium, a hideous suggestion that he is actually insane. 
Like a “drunken snake” this thought glides through his brain, 
stings and poisons his infallible system, and makes him a per¬ 
petual slave to an insoluble dilemma: has he simulated insanity 
in order to kill, or is the act of murder a result of his insanity? 
Dr. Kerzhentsev is hopelessly entangled in the maze of rebel¬ 
lious thoughts, slaves turned masters. He is at the mercy of his 
intellect, one of his faculties which he himself has cultivated 
10 Works —III, p. 251. 


204 Leonid Andreyev 

and cherished and aggrandized and set up as an absolute ruler 
over his other faculties. A grim paradox: reason enhanced to 
madness. 

One feels an autobiographical note in Andreyev’s attitude to¬ 
ward thought. Nearly all his works have as their central idea, 
one might say as their hero, thought. The typical scheme of a 
story by Andreyev consists of the drab life of a commonplace 
person suddenly illuminated by a flash of thought, which sub¬ 
limates gray existence to tragedy. The author seems to regard 
thought with a mixed feeling of reverence and awe. He sees 
in it a merciless surgeon apt to destroy the disease together with 
the body in which it is lodged. He considers it a double-edged 
sword which may slash the hand that wields it. Yet, whatever 
the perils that lurk in the tortuous paths of thought, Andreyev 
follows this path with the passion and abandon of a lion hunter, 
who pursues his quarry at the risk of being devoured by it. 

About a year after depicting the tragedy of Dr. Kerzhentsev, 
Andreyev drew another life destroyed as a result of being sick¬ 
bed o’er with the pale cast of thought.” In Life of Vasily 
Fiveysky we are shown faith firm as a rock yet ultimately cor¬ 
roded and consumed by thought. Vasily’s faith is being bruised 
and tempted exceedingly, yet it is not shaken. It remains solid 
and erect in face of Job-like misfortunes. His boy drowns in 
the river, while bathing. His wife succumbs to grief, and 
drinks heavily. There is a harrowing scene one winter night 
when the half-demented woman demands of the priest that he 
give her back her son, at least another son. She flings herself on 
the floor, tears the garments off her body, entreats and curses, 
whines amorously and shrieks in anger, until the priest yields. 
The product of this union of madness, alcohol, passion and pity 
is an idiot boy. Again the unfortunate mother tries to quench 
her aching heart in drink, again the priest stands up in the mid¬ 
dle of the field, and gravely, laconically declares, “I believe.” 
The Fiveyskys decide to leave their village, to seek a “luckier” 
place. For a time the illusion revives the woman, she even 
stops drinking. But one hot summer day, Vasily, on the way 
home from the field, sees a conflagration. Even without being 


Problems of the Individual 


205 


told he feels that once more he has been chosen as a victim. In 
a state of intoxication his wife has set the house on fire, and her 
body is reduced to a “gigantic bubble.” But the idiot is saved. 
“I believe!” insists Vasily. Yet his reason begins to tempt him 
with whys. 

Vasily’s personal sorrows render him more susceptible to the 
sorrows of others. Eagerly he conducts the confessionals, 
probes the hearts of his parishioners, makes them reveal to him 
their most secret thoughts and feelings, their sufferings and sins. 
Sins, to be sure. Like his flock the priest believes in sin, in 
punishment, in rewards, in a God who metes out justice accord¬ 
ing to one’s deserts. Those wretches who creep up to confess 
before the mediator between man and God are urged to tell 
their sins, to relate the wrongs they have done, for surely they 
have deserved their afflictions. In this naive conception of a 
mathematically correct divine justice, Vasily merely voices the 
average believer, the average seeker after truth, after an 
understanding of the ways of God. But 

he soon realized that all these people who were telling him the whole 
truth, as though he were God, were themselves ignorant of the truth of 
their life. Behind the thousands of their trifling, scattered, hostile truths, 
he dimly saw the shadowy outlines of the one great and all-solving truth. 
Every one was conscious of it, every one longed for it, yet no one could 
define it with a human word—that enormous truth of God and of men 
and of the mysterious destinies of human life. 11 

Father Vasily listens to the woes and tears of his flock, be¬ 
comes saturated with human grief and pain, of which there is 
no end, no limit. “Like unto an altar was his soul aflame.” 
Gradually it dawns upon him that the balance of sin and punish¬ 
ment is monstrously uneven, that the misdeeds confessed to are 
so puny, so trivial, in comparison with the suffering and misery 
inflicted upon the wretched transgressors. His faith is being 
jeopardized by the dangerous symptom of reflection. But he 
still believes, with the persistence of Brand. And when one of 
his parishioners, a healthy and inoffensive peasant, is killed, 

11 Works — IV, pp. 165, 166. 


206 Leonid Andreyev 

while at work, by an avalanche, leaving a widow and three chil¬ 
dren in utter helplessness, Vasily’s faith reaches its breaking 
point, and makes a final effort to stifle the small voice of reason 
which has been feebly but consistently stirring to rebellion. A 
new thought flashes through the outraged mind of the priest: 
this life of his that has been a long series of calamities, heart¬ 
aches, losses, disappointments, temptations—has it not been a 
crucible wherein God has been forging Vasily’s soul for the 
great test? Is he not the chosen victim-hero through whom 
God wishes to manifest his power and beneficence? All night 
long the priest meditates his desperate thought-illusions, prop¬ 
ping up his faith with biblical passages that relate miracles and 
resurrections. He reads aloud and comments with ecstasy and 
fervor, while his audience—the little idiot son—guffaws sense¬ 
lessly at his agitated father. Vasily believes, strenuously, 
boundlessly, and he decides to demonstrate the power of faith 
by performing a miracle. At the funeral service over the killed 
workman, Vasily solemnly commands the dead body to rise, and 
calls upon God to help him, to reward him for all his trials, 
for his fortitude and loyalty. Faith reaches its climax, and 
thwarted it snaps, as does Vasily’s life. 

The somewhat melodramatic setting of this story may be ex¬ 
plained by Andreyev’s desire to lend it a universal significance; 
hence he conventionalizes the drama of Vasily. The hero lacks 
the epic calm of Job, neither does he possess the rock-like 
strength and poise of Brand; but he is endowed with the trait 
common to most of Andreyev’s characters, that of the “divine 
average.” The tragedy of Father Vasily is likely to be lived 
through by an ordinary, commonplace person, once by the whip 
of circumstances he is lashed to thought. Thought versus be¬ 
lief. Faith is shown here as the deadly enemy of reason. 
Faith keeps the unfortunates in obedience and submission, by 
justifying the unjustifiable, by lulling discontent to sleep with 
the aid of such narcotic illusions as sin and penalty, virtue and 
reward, God and future life. 

We have come to the end of what we may consider the first 


Problems of the Individual 207 

period of Andreyev’s career, the period of a realistic analysis 
of individual man, in his attitudes toward life and the world. 
By nature and temperament solitary, sad and skeptical, Andre¬ 
yev possessed at the same time a keen power of analysis. In the 
mental chaos which enveloped Russian society at the end of the 
nineteenth century, his critical eye looked at life clear and un¬ 
dimmed as that of a hawk. He observed the everyday exist¬ 
ence of his contemporaries and found it sunless, empty, fu¬ 
tile. He pronounced this diagnosis without equivocation. He 
doubted everything, our dearest beliefs and most sacred tenets. 
Armed with sharp thought, he brandished it mercilessly over 
our heads, not concealing his own dread of this weapon. And 
as his thought matured, the field of his analysis and examination 
grew ever wider and deeper, establishing his position as that 
of a consistent critic and severe evaluator of our ideas and 
actions. 

The epitome of his views at that period may be seen in his 
play, The Life of Man, though chronologically this belongs to 
the next stage (it was written in 1906). Here Andreyev sets 
forth a popular exposition of Schopenhauer’s Weltanschauung, 
and at the same time a summary of his own attitudes, hitherto 
expressed fragmentarily. For at this stage as well as later An¬ 
dreyev lives largely “under the sign of Die Welt als Wille und 
Vorstellung, )} and his own views on the whole coincide, temper¬ 
amentally and intellectually, with those of Schopenhauer. This 
does not imply any conscious and consistent adherence on the 
part of Andreyev to Schopenhauer’s system. He was a dilet¬ 
tante in philosophy, as he was in all his variegated interests out¬ 
side of literature proper, be it painting or color photography or 
yachting or war propaganda. Yet one has no difficulty in trac¬ 
ing a definite Schopenhauerian thread through The Life of 
Man. In fact, nearly all of Andreyev’s early writings are sat¬ 
urated with Schopenhauerism of the more obvious variety. 
Misery, squalor, monotony, fear, loneliness, futility, illusion, 
disillusionment—these are the elements which in the writings 
discussed previously, compose Andreyev’s vale of tears. Life 
is on the whole an excess of pain over pleasure, “a disappoint- 


2o8 Leonid Andreyev 

ment, nay, a cheat.” 12 Man’s life is more painful than that 
of animals or plants, because it alone possesses the element of 
boredom, and because man lives in constant fear of death, of 
whose inevitable advent he knows . 13 Life is an illusion, a 
dream, 14 as is one’s striving for happiness—something nega¬ 
tive in its very nature, being the absence of pain, or the fulfill¬ 
ment of a desire, to be followed by an endless chain of succeed¬ 
ing desires. 15 

A summarized, systematized exposition of Schopenhauerian 
motives we find in The Life of Man y Andreyev’s morality play. 
Here we witness generalizations of Man, Wife, Child, Friends, 
Enemies, Fates, and of life’s stages in their normal sequence— 
the Birth of Man and Mother’s Travail, Man’s Love and Mar¬ 
riage, Struggle for Existence, Success-Riches, Misfortune, Sol¬ 
itude, Death. Throughout the action in a corner of the stage 
remains motionless Someone-in-Gray, the inscrutable master of 
life and its vicissitudes. In his hands is a burning candle whose 
size and flame increase and diminish in proportion to Man’s 
progress and regress. We are not told who he is, the moving 
factor of life—tedious life composed of childish conflicts, of 
aimless struggles and sufferings, of petty achievements, of com- 

12 . . das es [life] a disappointment, nay, a cheat ist, oder Deutsch zu reden, 
den Charakter einer grossen Mystification, nicht zu sagen einer Prellerei, tragt.”— 
Paregra und Paralipomena, § 156, p. 274 ( Werke — IV). 

13 “. . . auf der Seite der Leiden tritt bei ihm [man] die Langweile auf, welche 
das Thier, wenigstens in Naturzustande, nicht kennt . . . denn freilich sind Noth 
und Langweile die beiden Pole des Menschengeschlechts” . . . “in Menschen wachst 
das Mass des Schmerzes . . . und wird noch speciell dadurch gar sehr vergrossert, 
dass er von Tode wirklich weiss .”— Ibid., §153, p. 270. 

14 ‘“es ist die Maja, der Schleier der Truges, welcher die Augen der Sterbli- 
chen umhult und sie eine Welt sehen lasst, von der man weder sagen kann, dass 
sie sei, noch auch, dass sie nicht sei: denn sie gleicht dem Traume, gleicht dem 
Sonnenglanz auf dem Sande, welchen der Wanderer von feme fur ein Wasser 
halt, oder auch dem hingeworfenen Strick, den er fur eine Schlange ansieht.’ ”— 
Die Welt, etc., No. 3, p. 30 (v. I). 

15 “Alle Befriedigung, oder was man gemeinhin Gliick nennt, ist eigentlich und 
wesentlich immer nur negativ und durchaus nie positiv.” Ibid., No. 58, p. 362. 

“Die unaufhorlichen Bemiihungen, das Leiden zu verbannen, leisten nichts 
weiter, als dass es seine Gestalt verandert. Diese ist urspriinglich Mangel, Not, 
Sorge urn die Erhaltung des Lebens. Ist es, was sehr schwer halt, gegliickt, den 
Schmerz in dieser Gestalt zu verdrangcn, so stellt er sogleich sich in tausend an- 
dern ein, abwechselnd nach Alter und Umstanden, als Geschlechtstrieb, leidenschaft- 
liche Liebe, Eifersucht, Neid, Hass, Angst, Ehrgeiz, Krankheit usw. usw ."—Ibid., 
No. 57, P- 357- 


209 


Problems of the Individual 

monplace pleasures, of dead monotony, of shallow pitfalls and 
snares culminating in the inevitable silly end—death . 16 It is 
not a mere accident that He is “in gray.” Life is not a grand 
tragedy of romantic colors and titanic dimensions, but rather a 
stale flat farce . 17 Man is presented here as an Average—not 
too good nor too bad, moderately clever and gifted, moderately 
virtuous and philistine. His utter bondage and helplessness, 
and the futility of his efforts, are summarized in the speech of 
Someone-in-Gray, in the prologue. It is worth quoting in toto, 
as a rather complete doctrine: 

Look and listen, ye who have come hither for mirth and laughter. Lo, 
there will pass before you all the life of Man, with its dark beginning 
and its dark end. Hitherto nonexistent, mysteriously hidden in infinite 
time, without thought or feeling, utterly unknown, he will mysteriously 
break through the barriers of nonexistence and with a cry will announce 
the beginning of his brief life. In the night of nonexistence will blaze 
up a candle, lighted by an unseen hand. This is the life of Man. Be¬ 
hold its flame. It is the life of Man. 

After birth he will take on the image and the name of man, and in 
all respects he will be like other people who already live on the earth, 
and their cruel fate will be his fate, and his cruel fate will be the fate 
of all people. Irresistibly dragged on by time, he will tread inevitably 
all the steps of human life, upward to its climax and downward to its 
end. Limited in vision, he will not see the step to which his unsure foot 
is already raising him. Limited in knowledge, he will never know what 
the coming day or hour or moment is bringing to him. And in his blind 
ignorance, worn by apprehension, harassed by hopes and fears, he will 
complete submissively the iron round of destiny. 

16 cf. Schopenhauer: “Es ist wirklich unglaublich wie nichtssagend und be- 
deutungsleer, von aussen gesehen, und wie dumpf und besinnungslos, von innen 
empfunden, das Leben der allermeisten Menschen dahinfliesst. Es ist ein mattes 
Sehnen und Qualen, ein traumerisches Taumeln durch die vier Lebensalter hin- 
durch zum Tode, unter Begleitung einer Reihe trivialer Gedanken. Sie gleichen 
Uhrwerken, welche aufgezogen werden und gehen, ohne zu wissen warum; und 
jedesmal, das ein Mensch gezeugt und geboren worden, ist die Uhr des Menschens- 
lebens aufs neue aufgezogen, um jetzt ihr schon zahllose Male abgespieltes Leier- 
stiick abermals zu wiederholen, Satz vor Satz und Takt for Takt, mit unbe- 
deutenden Variationen.”— Ibid., No. 58, p. 364. 

17 cf.: . . . “das Treiben und die Plage des Tages, die rastlose Neckerei des 
Augenblicks, das Wiinschen und Furchten der Woche, die Unfalle jeder Stunde, 
mittelst des stets auf Schabemack bedachten Zufalls, sind lauter Komodienszenen. 
—Ibid., p. 365- 


210 Leonid Andreyev 

Behold him, a happy youth. See how brightly the candle burns. The 
icy wind blowing from infinite space puffs and whirls about, causing the 
flame to flutter. The candle, however, burns clearly and brightly, though 
the wax is melting, consumed by the fire. The wax is melting. 

Lo, he is a happy husband and father. Yet look! How dim and 
strange the candle glimmers, as if the flame were a yellowing leaf, as if 
the flame were shivering and shielding itself from the cold. For the wax 
is melting, consumed by the fire. The wax is melting. Lo, now he is an 
old man, feeble and sick. The path of life has been trodden to its end 
and now the dark abyss has taken its place, but he still presses on with 
tottering foot. The livid flame, bending toward the earth, flutters feebly, 
trembles and sinks, trembles and sinks, and quietly goes out. 

Thus Man will die. Coming from the night he will return to the 
night. Bereft of thought, bereft of feeling, unknown to all, he will 
perish utterly, vanishing without trace into infinity. And I, whom men 
call He, will be the faithful companion of Man throughout all the days 
of his life and in all his pathways. Unseen by Man and his companions, 
I shall unfailingly be near him both in his waking and in his sleeping 
hours; when he prays and when he curses; in hours of joy when his free 
and bold spirit soars high; in hours of depression and sorrow when his 
weary soul is overshadowed by deathlike gloom and the blood in the heart 
is chilled; in hours of victory and defeat; in the hours of heroic struggle 
with the inevitable I shall be with him—I shall be with him. 

And ye who have come hither for mirth, ye who are doomed to die, 
look and listen. Lo, the swiftly flowing life of Man will pass before you, 
with its sorrows and its joys, like a far off, thin reflection. 18 

Who is He, the inseparable companion of Man in all his 
walks and tribulations? From the general nature of the play 
one may judge that Andreyev has wished to symbolize in this 
mysterious Being the Will, in Schopenhauer’s sense. Will, or 

is Works — VII, pp. 35-37. I have used the fine translation of Meader and 
Scott —Plays by Leonid Andreyev, pp. 67-69 (New York, 1920; first edition, 1915)* 

Cf. the opening speech of the Messenger, in Everyman: 

“I pray you all gyve your audyence 
And here this matter with reverence. 

By fygure a morall playe; 

The somonynge of Everyman called it is, 

That of our lyves and endynge shewes 
How transitory we be all daye.” etc. 

Edited by Montrose J. Moses, New York, 1903. 


Problems of the Individual 


211 


Will-to-live, which to Schopenhauer are synonymous, 19 is re¬ 
sponsible for Man’s actions and impulses, for it generates all 
his desires and his futile strivings for the fulfillment of these de¬ 
sires—an unattainable goal, since desire means want, and one 
want is followed by an interminable series of succeeding wants. 20 
There remains only one dignified step for Man, once he becomes 
aware of the fact that in his race for happiness he is playing 
the role of a mouse in a running wheel—to curse. To curse, 
according to Dostoyevsky, is “man’s only privilege, which dif¬ 
ferentiates him from other animals.” 21 In Schopenhauer’s 
terminology, man revolts against his Will-to-live, rejects it, de¬ 
nies it, and thereby sets himself free. 22 Enraged by the sense¬ 
less cruelties inflicted upon him, Man in Andreyev’s play rises 
in protest and rebellion against the cause of his sufferings, and 
turning to the corner where he feels the presence of Someone- 
in-Gray, he proclaims his “curse of Man,” in which he “rises 
victorious” over life, with its joys and sorrows, and over life’s 
driving force—the mysterious Someone. In defying the mov¬ 
ing power of life, in his abnegation of the Will-to-live, Man 
emerges from his trials and calamities a free and independent 
being. He has nothing to lose, nothing can be taken away from 

19 “. . . so ist es einerlei und nur ein Pleonasmus, wenn wir statt schlechthin 
zu sagen, ‘der Wille,’ sagen ‘der Wille zum Leben.’ ” Die Welt, etc., No. 54, p. 
3x5 (fVerke —/). 

20 “Alles fivollen entspringt aus Bedurfnis, also aus Mangel, also aus Leiden. 
Diesem macht die Erfullung ein Ende; jedoch gegen einen Wunsch, der erfullt 
wird, bleiben wenigstens zehn versagt: ferner, das Begehren dauert lange, die 
Forderungen gehen ins Unendliche; die Erfullung ist kurz and karglich gernes- 
sen. Sogar aber ist die endliche Befriedigung selbst nur scheinbar: der erfiillte 
Wunsch macht gleich einem neuen Platz: jener ist ein erkannter, dieser noch 
ein unerkannter Irrtum. ... So liegt das Subjekt des Wollens bestandig auf dem 
drehenden Rade des Ixion, schopft immer im Siebe der Danaiden, ist der ewig 
schmachtende Tantalus.”— Ibid.., No. 38, p. 231. 

21 Notes from Underground (Zafiski iz podpolya), end of chapter VIII, p. 463. 
Berlin, 1922, Ladyschnikow. 

22 “Wann aber ausserer Anlass, oder innere Stimmung, uns plotzlich aus dem 
endlosen Strome des Wollens heraushebt, die Erkenntnis dem Sklavendienste des 
Willens entreisst . . . dann ist die . . . Ruhe mit einem Male von selbst eingetre- 
ten, und uns ist vollig wohl. Es ist der schmerzenlose Zustand, den Epikur als 
das hochste Gut und als den Zustand der Gotter pries: denn wir sind, fur jenen 
Augenblick, des schnoden Willensdranges entledigt, wir feiern den Sabbat der 
Zuchthausarbeit des Wollens, das Rad des Ixion steht still.”— Die Welt, etc., No. 
38, pp. 231, 232. {Werke —/). 


212 Leonid Andreyev 

him! In the last scene we observe Man, with his towering 
“gray, beautiful, terribly majestic” head, rising above the sordid 
surroundings through ignoring them with complete indifference. 
He dies a victor, in the Schopenhauer sense of the word, as one 
who has overcome the world . 23 

The Life of Man presents a disenchanted view of life and 
man. “Limited in vision and in knowledge,” man fussily wrig¬ 
gles during the brief span of his existence, pursuing his small 
activities, craving for petty, selfish achievements, conceitedly 
regarding himself as the centre of the universe. Only through 
suffering does man arrive at the bitter knowledge that his 
choices and preferences are an illusion, that he is a slave, in 
bondage to his Will, and that only through destroying this Will, 
through overcoming life, can he become free. We shall see 
how Andreyev develops at times Schopenhauer’s idea of the 
will-free man who lives the life of a contemplator or of a saint 
(e. g., the Astronomer in To the Stars, Werner in The Seven 
That Were Hanged, David Leiser in Anathema) . In The 
Life of Man, however, he does not go beyond liberating man 
from his bondage to will, and terminating his futile struggle in 
peace eternal—death. It is for this reason that Andreyev’s 
first symbolical play forms a fitting climax for the early period 
of his writings, the period of unrelieved negation and hopeless¬ 
ness. It sums up his fragmentary indictments against life’s 
monotony, cruelty, stupidity, illusoriness, in one sweeping con¬ 
demnation of man’s existence under the tyranny of his Will. 

23 Cf. “. . . dass die grosste, wichtigste und bedeutsamste Erscheinung, welche 
die Welt aufzeigen kann, nicht der Welteroberer ist, sondern der Weltiiber- 
winder, also in der Tat nichts anderes, als der stille und unbemerkte Lebens- 
wandel eines solchen Menschen, dem diejenige Erkenntnis aufgegangen ist, in- 
folge welcher er jenen alles erfullenden und in allem treibenden und strebenden 
Willen zum Leben aufgibt und verneint, dessen Freiheit erst hier, in ihm allein, 
hervortritt”— Ibid., No. 68, pp. 432, 433. 


Ill 


PROBLEMS OF COLLECTIVE HUMANITY 

Two kinds of social writers in Russia.—Andreyev’s place.—His response 
to contemporary events: extracting their essential significance.— 
The Red Laugh —indictment of war.—The background of the 
story.—The disastrous war with Japan, and its resultant up¬ 
heaval in Russia.—The “bloodless revolution” of 1905.—Pub¬ 
lic unity and disunity.— The Governor, and its background.— 
Suggestive power of thought, individual and collective.— Thus 
It Was —disparagement of revolutions and of mass intelligence.— 
Inner slavery.— To the Stars. —The Astronomer’s outlook sub 
specie aternitatis. —Marusya—attached to the earth.—Encour¬ 
aging notes of the play.—The Workman.—The year 1906, and 
Savva. —Uncompromising destruction: Ignis sanat. —Rational¬ 
ism versus faith.—Official recognition of Andreyev’s influence.— 
The background of The Seven That Were Hanged. —Condem¬ 
nation of capital punishment.—Triumph over death.—Terror¬ 
ists in actual life.—Sacrificing one’s soul, not only one’s body: 
Darkness. — Sashka Zhegulev and its background.—The 20th 
century Repentant Noble.—Andreyev’s sentiment in From the 
Story Which Will Never Be Finished. —Epitome of his social 
writings in Tsar Hunger. —The working class.—The Lumpen- 
proletariat.—The bourgeoisie and its subservient science, art, 
church, courts.—The Intelligentsia.—Andreyev’s attitude con¬ 
sistent with the views of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.—Yet, 
unlike them, he fails to justify state institutions as a necessary 
evil.—Torn between reason and sentiment. 

Since literature in Russia was the sole outlet for the pent-up 
and suppressed national aspirations, the Russian writer found 
himself the spokesman for the inarticulate millions. He was 
expected to fulfill the high social obligation of furnishing his 
compatriots with a clear interpretation of contemporary events 
and ideas, by presenting them in the form of more or less crys- 

213 


214 Leonid Andreyev 

tallized images. Turgenev in particular distinguished himself 
as an interpreter of social currents, projecting on large canvases 
such burning problems as serfdom (Notes of a Huntsman ), as 
Slavophilism and Westernism (Smoke), as Nihilism (Fathers 
and Sons), as the To the People movement (Virgin Soil). 
Such a writer bore the responsibilities, and enjoyed the disad¬ 
vantages, of a prophet in his own country. He held the pulse 
of his people, he kept his ear close to the breast of his land, he 
inhaled its air and anticipated atmospheric changes—and an¬ 
nounced the diagnosis and the prognosis. On the other hand, 
such writers as Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy reacted to the present 
in a somewhat different way. Equally sensitive and responsive 
to contemporary conditions and upheavals, these writers usually 
failed to reflect them as mass movements and group-phenomena, 
but employed them as frameworks for individual introspective 
experiences. Crime and Punishment and The Possessed, by 
Dostoyevsky, are chronologically related to the same contempo¬ 
rary events as Fathers and Sons and Virgin Soil, respectively. 
Yet Raskolnikov, Svidrigaylov, Stavrogin, Shatov, Verkhoven- 
sky, remain sharply individualized characters rather than typical 
representatives of the young generation during the sixties and 
seventies. War and Peace and Anna Karenin are laid at defi¬ 
nite periods in nineteenth century Russia, yet their leading char¬ 
acters, Prince Andrey, Pierre, Levin, represent not so much the 
Napoleonic age or the Russian gentry after the emancipation of 
the serfs, as they reflect the personal mental experiences of the 
chief hero in nearly all of Tolstoy’s works, namely, Tolstoy 
himself. In other words, the writers of Turgenev’s type aim 
at interpreting the present objectively and specifically, within the 
limits of temporal and local conditions, while those of the 
Dostoyevsky-Tolstoy mode seek to invert social phenomena into 
subjective and generalizing reflection and speculation. 

Leonid Andreyev belongs with the second category of Rus¬ 
sian “social” writers. Spurning the “splendid isolation” of the 
Russian Symbolists, Decadents, Mystics, and other modernists 
who shut themselves up in their ivory towers and applied the 


Collective Humanity 215 

ostrich policy to the palpable horrors of the present, Andreyev 
remained, like Ezekiel, “among the captives”—“and the hand 
of the Lord was there upon him.” The last two decades of 
Russian history, so replete with upheavals, catastrophes, trans¬ 
formations—in a word, so dramatic, have been reflected pro¬ 
foundly and many-sidedly in Andreyev’s works. War, revolu¬ 
tion, terroristic acts, class struggle, hunger, executions—these 
and other phenomena were recorded and echoed in his stories 
and plays, giving some critics a pretext for accusing him of be¬ 
ing a mere chronicler, a journalist. But while Gorky has 
recorded these years in novels and plays that present mass move¬ 
ments, the awakening of mass conscience, of class consciousness, 
the growth of the revolutionary proletariat, the disintegration 
of the old order ( Mother, The Spy, The Confession, Okurov 
Town, Matvey Kozhemyakin) , Andreyev fails to portray these 
shifting changes, these transient events, these portentous proc¬ 
esses, in themselves. Out of these turbulent phenomena he ex¬ 
tracts their essence, their absolute significance, their value be¬ 
yond time or place, thus lending the phenomena a general, uni¬ 
versal importance. For this reason his reaction to the Russo- 
Japanese war becomes a symbolization of war in general, just 
as his observations of the revolution and of its various concom¬ 
itants acquire a scope far beyond their local and temporal limits. 

Nowhere in literature is the horror of war presented as 
amply as in The Red Laugh. Stendhal’s Chartreuse de Parme 
and Tolstoy’s Sevastopol are more artistic delineations of war’s 
cruelty, injustice and absurdity. But for sheer horror, for the 
cumulating effect of howling, shrieking horror, The Red Laugh 
has no equal. In passing one may observe that in his fondness 
for the morbid and pathological, Andreyev has always been on 
the right side of scientific probability in depicting unusual mani¬ 
festations. Thus his Thought was discussed by a conference 
of psychiatrists, and declared psychologically unimpeachable. 1 
Similarly his portrayal of the state of mind of those convicted 

1 I cite this from memory, unable to locate the source. Mme. Andreyev sup¬ 
ports my recollection. 


216 Leonid Andreyev 

to death was regarded, we may recall, as uncannily correct by 
men who had gone through such an experience. 2 Andreyev’s 
sailors, aviators, madmen, brigands, Esthonians, Jews, Italians, 
men in various walks of life and under divers physical and men¬ 
tal circumstances, were drawn by him with the sure stroke of 
first-hand experience, though he seldom left his study, villa or 
yacht. We may also recall Gorky’s wonderment at Andreyev’s 
intuitive power for grasping with precision remote and difficult 
subjects, 3 and Chukovsky’s description of Andreyev’s faculty of 
impersonating his characters and spontaneously assimilating 
their traits and emotions 4 —that we may explain in part the 
convincing effect of the world created by his imagination. 

In his portrayal of war Andreyev crushes our senses with the 
realistic tone of veracity, when presenting such details as bodies 
torn by barbed wire, or blood streaming from a beheaded body, 
“as out of an uncorked bottle, such as is drawn on badly exe¬ 
cuted signboards.” One involuntarily compares The Red Laugh 
with the two characteristic productions of the last war, Bar- 
busse’s Under Fire, and L'atzko’s Men in War, and one con¬ 
cludes that the horrors visualized by the mind of Andreyev are 
at least as nerve-racking and as convincing as those depicted by 
the Frenchman and by the Austrian from supposedly personal 
experiences in the trenches and on the field of battle. “Mad¬ 
ness and horror. Horror and madness” is the persistent mo¬ 
tive ringing through the bleeding “Fragments” of the war- 
outraged mind. Seen through the eyes of a sensitive intellec¬ 
tual, shell-shocked and mutilated, war is deprived of all sense 
and justification, and is reduced to an insane orgy of madmen 
annihilating one another without knowing why. He sees red, 
a “red laugh”—“something enormous, red and bloody . . . 
laughing a toothless laugh.” And when death mercifully de¬ 
livers the unfortunate from the clutches of red agony, his 
brother, who has stayed at home, becomes infected with the 
horrors brought back by those returning from the trenches. 

2 Supra, p. 98. 

3 Supra, p. 116 f. 

4 Supra, p. 53 f. 


Collective Humanity 217 

His mind collapses under the tragedy of his brother, under the 
numerous tragedies witnessed by him day after day, as that 
commonplace tragedy of a mother receiving tender letters from 
her soldier boy, long after a telegram has announced his death 
in battle. But the greatest horror of war is found in the de¬ 
ranged minds of its participants. In the morbid imagination 
of the writer of the “Fragments,” dementia appears the normal 
state of those in war. He tells about trains full of mad soldiers 
passing the railroad station, and he describes one face seen 
through the window of the moving car: 

Fearfully drawn, the color of a lemon, with an open black mouth and 
fixed eyes, it was so much like a mask of horror that I could not tear 
myself away from it. And it stared at me, the whole of it, and was 
motionless, and so it swam by together with the moving car, without a 
stir, without shifting its gaze. I * * * 5 

Alongside the tragic horror of war, Andreyev draws nis fa¬ 
vorite situation, that of thought struggling with darkness, striv¬ 
ing for understanding, and pitifully breaking down under the 
inexorable force of the inexplicable. Again and again we feel 
the author’s mixed attitude toward thought, this delicate, com¬ 
plex, ruthless apparatus, which may turn against its possessor 
and destroy him, as it did Dr. Kerzhentsev. Doomed to the 
fate of his brother, this war victim has but one desire—to has¬ 
ten the advent of the inevitable darkness which will put out 
the last flicker of his shocked thought. 

I do not understand war [he says], and I must go mad, like my brother, 

like hundreds of men that are brought from there. And this does not 
frighten me. The loss of reason seems to me honorable, like the death 
of a sentinel at his post. But the expectation, this slow and sure approach 
of madness, this momentary feeling of something enormous falling into 

an abyss, this unbearable pain of tormented thought . . . My heart is 

numb, it is dead, and there is no new life for it, but my thought—still 
alive, still struggling, once powerful as Samson but now defenseless and 
feeble as a child—I feel sorry for my poor thought. There are minutes 
when the torture of these iron hoops compressing my brain becomes un- 

5 Works—V, p. 137. 


218 Leonid Andreyev 

bearable; I have an irresistible desire to run out into the street, into the 
public square, and cry out to the people: 

“Stop the war at once, or else . . .” 

But what “else” is there? Are there any words which might bring 
them back to reason, words that might not be met with other words, as 
loud and lying? Or shall I fall on my knees before them and break into 
tears? But do not hundreds of thousands fill the world with their tears, 
and is it of any avail? Or shall I kill myself before their eyes? Kill! 
Thousands are dying daily—and is this of any avail? 

And when I feel thus my impotence, I am seized with rage—the rage 
of war which I hate. . . . 6 

Ten years later Andreyev’s stand implied that to him there 
were wars and wars. In August, 1914, he found himself not 
with Romain Rolland and Gorky and Bernard Shaw—“above 
the battle,” but with Maeterlinck and Anatole France and 
Hauptmann and d’Annunzio and other champions of “la voie 
glorieuse.” But in 1904, when The Red Laugh was published, 
very few thinking Russians could condone the slaughter on the 
plains of Manchuria. 7 Even the subservient press was at a 
loss in endeavoring to clothe the adventure with high-sounding 
phrases of patriotic camouflage. Society knew that the Gov¬ 
ernment had provoked hostilities by breaking its repeated prom¬ 
ises to evacuate the Russian troops from Manchuria, and by 
encroaching on Japan’s “sphere of influence” in Korea. It was 
also known that behind this adventure were greedy speculators 
and investors hunting for markets. By the year 1903 Russian 
industry, created and artificially cultivated by the Government, 
had reached a critical point. The time came when the Govern¬ 
ment could no longer father the home manufacturers both as 
guarantor of profits and as chief consumer, besides employing 
the famous panacea of a protective, or rather prohibitive, tariff. 
In order to lead a normal existence and to develop naturally, 
Russian industry needed a market, internal or foreign. The 
first was out of the question, for the reason that rural Russia, 

6 Ibid., pp. 133, 134- 

7 The historical background presented in this chapter, and elsewhere in the 
essay, is based on my Russia under Nicolas II, appended to volume II of Kornilov’s 
Modern Russian History (New York, 1917), unless otherwise stated. 


Collective Humanity 219 

eighty-five per cent of the population, famished, backward, 
overtaxed, possessed no purchasing power, especially in view 
of the exorbitant prices on the “protected” commodities. In¬ 
stead of endeavoring to improve the condition of the peasants, 
and thus build up an enormous domestic market, the Russian 
get-rich-quicks preferred to pursue what seemed to them the di¬ 
rection of lesser resistance—the grabbing of timber concessions 
along the Yalu River, and the grandiose exploitation of the Far 
East in general. When Japan, exasperated by the endless pro¬ 
crastinations and by the insolent tone of St. Petersburg, began 
hostilities, Russian liberals and revolutionists anticipated with 
regret the further increase of the autocratic power through what 
General Kuropatkin, then Minister of War, predicted would 
prove a “triumphant military promenade.” But the war re¬ 
vealed not only the rapacious greed of the two-headed eagle; 
it also demonstrated the utter corruption and rottenness of the 
bureaucratic structure. To the universal astonishment, small 
and poor Japan dealt the Russian giant blow after blow, on land 
and on sea, conceding to the Russian arms not one victory. 
Russia lost in the end, besides Port Arthur and Port Dalny and 
Manchurian concessions, the southern half of Sakhalin, millions 
of rubles and hundreds of thousands of men, and well-nigh its 
entire fleet. The disastrous debacle of Russia’s army and navy 
did not signify the seriousness of the “yellow peril,” one of the 
numerous hobbies of the versatile Wilhelm Hohenzollern. In 
that conflict an occidentalized state defeated a semi-Asiatic, 
archaic, clumsy, corrupt, mismanaged despotism. The lesson 
was obvious, and however high and dear the price paid for it, it 
served a great purpose. The nation was aroused. Although 
the war with Japan was never popular, the Government had 
hoped to drown the voices of opposition by a patriotic tattoo 
and by easy victories. But when the uncalled-for war was 
coupled with disgraceful defeats and with the customary revela¬ 
tions of graft and theft in various departments of the military 
machine, the cup of endurance became overfilled. Throughout 
the years 1904 and 1905 the country resembled a volcano whose 
sporadic eruptions threatened to sweep away the ancient insti- 


220 Leonid Andreyev 

tutions that clung to the precarious crust of the lava. Anti¬ 
mobilization riots, labor strikes and sabotage on such a large 
scale as the burning of the oil fields in the Baku district, agrarian 
disorders and violence against landowners, soldier and sailor 
mutinies, the avowed opposition—though only verbal—of the 
middle class, of professionals, of liberals, of genuine patriots, 
the active propaganda by word and deed carried on by the 
Marxian Social-Democrats and by the Narodnik Social-Revolu¬ 
tionists, all this mass of inflammable material required only a 
spark to burst into a huge conflagration. The Government re¬ 
luctantly granted concessions, usually after some terroristic act, 
such as the assassination of Minister of Interior von Plehve, or 
the assassination of Grand Duke Sergey, uncle of the tsar. 
But the concessions were half measures which satisfied no one, 
and only whetted the appetite for real freedom. The press 
was given more freedom of expression, but not enough. The 
universities received the right of self-government, a privilege 
that was at once utilized for throwing the doors of the academic 
institutions open to revolutionary assemblies and headquarters. 
The general clamor for a Constituent Assembly which would 
work out a new form of government was met with a typically 
bureaucratic proposal for convening a carefully selected Duma 
with consultative powers only, a proposal that was met with 
derision and indignation by the larger part of the public. Not 
one of the least important reasons for the Government’s consent 
to the humiliating conditions of the Portsmouth treaty with 
Japan was its inability to cope with the internal situation and 
its desire to have an armed force at home in case of need. But 
the troops that began to pour across the Urals into European 
Russia after the conclusion of peace were imbued with such bit¬ 
terness against the dishonest and stupid authorities that their 
loyalty seemed far from dependable. Autocracy felt isolated 
and at bay. The coup de grace was administered to it, how¬ 
ever, in a peculiarly Russian fashion—in a mode of nonresist¬ 
ance. In place of a traditional armed uprising, with guns and 
barricades, there took place a general strike of unprecedented 
dimensions, unanimity and effectiveness. Without any prelim- 


Collective Humanity 221 

inary organization, without any party leadership, Russia united 
spontaneously in a determination to cease all social functions 
until the obsolete tyranny was gone. Factory workmen, rail- 
waymen, postmen, telegraphists, bank clerks, opera singers, ac¬ 
tors, ballet dancers, journalists, were joined voluntarily by men 
of independent professions—by lawyers, shopkeepers, publish¬ 
ers, bankers, factory owners, who often urged their employees 
to strike, with the assurance that their wages would be paid 
regularly during the time of idleness. Not a wheel turned, not 
a wire stirred, not an office button buzzed, for nearly a week. 
The Government faced financial and moral bankruptcy at home 
and abroad, and had to yield. On October 30, 1905, the tsar 
signed a manifesto granting the people freedom of speech, of 
assembly, of organization, of confession, personal inviolability, 
and a liberal franchise for a Duma without whose sanction no 
law could become valid. 

This “bloodless revolution” caused great national rejoicing, 
signifying the conquest of those rights and liberties for which 
the best sons and daughters of Russia had been sacrificing their 
lives in a century-long struggle. It was a short-lived joy, how¬ 
ever. The revolution proved to be only a revolt, if by the first 
we understand a successful overthrow of an established order, 
and by the second, an unsuccessful attempt at such a subversion. 
To be sure, the October manifesto signed the death of the old 
regime, but the fact that the signature was “granted” by the 
tsar, the very symbol of that regime, presented a proof that 
the celebrated death was “an exaggeration,” to borrow Mark 
Twain’s comment upon his rumored demise. History hardly 
knows an instance of an outgoing order voluntarily surrender¬ 
ing to its successor, performing self-decapitation. Autocracy 
managed to revive shortly after the temporary collapse, and to 
carry on its existence for another dozen years. Its main 
strength lay in the weakness of its opponent. Russia in 1905 
was not yet ripe for a revolution. The city proletariat, assisted 
and led by representatives of the Intelligentsia, was too small 
numerically to offset the inertia of the masses, the unreasoning 
loyalism of the majority of the army, the opportunism of the 


222 Leonid Andreyev 

liberals, the standpattism of the conservatives. The national 
unity displayed during the dramatic days of passive resistance 
was disrupted immediately after the publication of the Mani¬ 
festo. All groups and classes, with the exception of the mer¬ 
cenary bureaucracy and some purblind reactionaries, were in¬ 
terested in the passing of the archaic semi-feudal order which 
oppressed not only the peasant and the workman, but the privi¬ 
leged classes also, impeding the progress and natural growth 
of capital, of commerce and industry. But as soon as it became 
evident, as early as October, that the political changes implied 
also economic reforms; as soon as alongside of the slogan 
“Down with Autocracy” was sounded the demand for an eight- 
hour working day, and the ancient cry of the peasants for land 
assumed an ominous intensity, the representatives of the prop¬ 
ertied classes and the liberal professions largely withdrew their 
support from the fighting workmen. They were willing to 
forgo even the political concessions, if these could not be had 
without at the same time granting industrial and agrarian re¬ 
forms. The Government, ever ready to employ the principle 
of divide et impera, hastened to make use of the internecine strife 
and jealousy among its opponents, and began to withdraw or 
invalidate the liberal promises and measures granted under pres¬ 
sure and fear. It inaugurated a campaign of vengeance against 
the people, of wholesale flogging, shooting, hanging. The 
Duma was reduced to a farce, representing largely the land- 
owners and big manufacturers, with curbed rights and clipped 
powers. The ideal, for the attainment of which the nation had 
offered a century of struggle, became cheap and profane. The 
restoration of the old regime was bound to have a demoralizing 
effect on Russian society. 

In the years of storm and stress outlined in the foregoing 
paragraphs, it was difficult for a thinking Russian to stay aloof 
from affairs of the day. Even such a-social poets as Balmont 
and Bryusov, or such mystics as Merezhkovsky and Minsky, were 
engulfed by the tide of national upheaval, and were impelled to 
echo “current events.” During these years of hopes and dis¬ 
appointments, of cruel excesses and ruthless vengeance, of mob 


Collective Humanity 223 

sentiments and herd actions, Andreyev “sat amidst the cap¬ 
tives’’ and meditated gravely. Though of special significance 
when regarded in the light of contemporary facts, his works of 
that period are by no means of a local or temporary value, but 
present human documents for all times and places. 

The Governor, written in 1905, exemplifies this combination 
of reflecting fleeting modernity with a contemplation of ques¬ 
tions deep and eternal. Terror, “red” and “white,” furnishes 
the framework for this study. It brings to one’s mind the Red 
Sunday, January 22, 1905, when thousands of workmen, even 
women and children, were mowed down on the squares of 
Petrograd by the tsar’s troops. Their crime consisted in being 
patriotic and public-spirited, their misfortune—in venerating 
and trusting the crowned father of the people. Armed only 
with ikons, church banners and crosses, led by a priest, Georgy 
Gapon, to the singing of religious hymns, thousands of loyal 
subjects of the tsar marched in procession toward the Winter 
Palace, in order to present a humble petition about the griev¬ 
ances and needs of the country. The petitioners were not per¬ 
mitted even to approach the palace, and were met with volleys 
of fire. The snow of the streets was crimsoned with the blood 
of deceived men, women and children, while the surviving work¬ 
men were definitely cured of their faith in crowned fathers of 
the people. 

Few Russian writers have ever attempted to understand and 
explain the psychology of the tsar’s henchmen. Bureaucrats 
were either caricatured and satirized (as in the works of Gogol 
and Saltykov-Shchedrin), or treated with undisguised malice 
(Turgenev’s Smoke) and contempt (Tolstoy’s Anna Karenin 
and Resurrection ). Andreyev approached his characters with 
the impartiality of a clinic surgeon toward his patients, with the 
objectivity of a painter toward beauty and ugliness in his 
subject matter. Hence his untiring effort to put himself in the 
place of his character, and to live through the emotions and 
thoughts of that character, no matter how repulsive they may 
be. When successful in this endeavor, Andreyev rises, and 
raises us, to the height of human understanding which is for- 


224 Leonid Andreyev 

giveness. In such cases he proves a worthy disciple of Dostoy¬ 
evsky, whose treatment of degenerates, criminals, and perverts, 
illustrates the maxim “tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner.’’ 

Andreyev’s Governor is a typical official of the old school— 
an unreasoning mechanical screw in the bureaucratic apparatus. 
When a crowd of workmen, with their wives and children, 
march to his mansion with a petition for the betterment of their 
conditions, the Governor bluntly orders them to go back to 
work. And when the exasperated wretches linger and give vent 
to their suffering in shouts, the Governor in annoyance waves 
his white handkerchief, at which signal the troops fire and kill 
a number of demonstrants. As usual, the Governor is highly 
praised by the authorities for his “firmness,” and is warmly 
congratulated by his friends, particularly by his son, an army 
officer, who regards his father’s conduct as exemplary of a loyal 
“servant of the tsar and the fatherland.” But to Andreyev 
this ordinary, quotidian occurrence serves as a springboard, 
from which he makes his hero leap into a new existence. He 
repeats here his favorite scheme, that of introducing into a 
commonplace life a moment of intense thinking which individ¬ 
ualizes this life and makes it dramatic. The Governor, a white- 
haired general, who has spent his life in receiving and giving 
orders unquestioningly and unreasoningly, is stirred to the in¬ 
nermost depth of his soul by the sight of the long row of up¬ 
turned poorly shod feet belonging to the murdered “mutineers,” 
whose corpses have been nicely laid out for the inspection of 
His Excellency. His whole existence is shocked to its founda¬ 
tions. From the moment of the shooting “time has stopped” 
for him; his former functions and interests, his family and 
friends, all that made up the routine of his well-ordered guber¬ 
natorial existence, have lost all meaning for him, and he has 
plunged, as it were, into a dark pit where his mind and memory 
react only to one image—that single gesture of his hand waving 
a white handkerchief. Here Andreyev suggests a curious no¬ 
tion, to the effect that red terror is not the response of certain 
parties or individuals to white terror, but that murder is an¬ 
swered by murder fatally, regardless of the individual will, by 


Collective Humanity 225 

force of collective conscience, one might say. With keen psy¬ 
chological analysis Andreyev dissects the mind of the Governor, 
and reveals its single-track course—toward death. The Gov¬ 
ernor knows that he is going to be assassinated, that his gesture 
with the white handkerchief has provoked a power which will 
repay his deed with inevitable certainty. He devotes the brief 
span remaining till his doom to an occupation unknown to him in 
his “normal” days, introspection. With equal subtlety An¬ 
dreyev presents the state of mind in the town where the drama 
is being enacted. Since the day of the demonstration, the 
murder of the Governor has been expected by everybody with 
the same calm assurance as one expects the rise or the setting 
of the sun. Foe and friend discuss the question, argue in favor 
and against the justice of the approaching finale, but no one 
doubts the unavoidable advent of the judgment of fate. Thus 
the prospective victim and the community cooperate, so to speak, 
in forcing upon destiny the foregone decision of the collective 
conscience. “It was as if the ancient hoary law punishing with 
death for death, the law which had seemed asleep, almost dead, 
to those who see not—had opened its cold eyes, perceived the 
slain men, women, and children, and imperiously stretched out 
its merciless hand over the head of the man who killed.” 8 The 
masterly handling of the subject and the powerful portrayal of 
the waves of one definite thought stirring the air of the town act 
persuasively on the mind of the reader, even though in theory 
he may regard the theme as a bit fantastic. Certainly those men 
and women who proudly accepted their appointment by the revo¬ 
lutionary organization to commit an act of terrorism would 
indignantly spurn the idea that their heroism and self-sacrifice 
were prompted not so much by their personal views and con¬ 
victions as by an intangible collective will reflecting an Old 
Testament sense of justice. 

During the same year (1905) Andreyev reacted a second 
time to the revolutionary movement—in his story Thus It Was. 
Here again, as in The Governor, the local and specific are sub¬ 
limated to the universal and general. Published shortly after the 


8 Works —r, p. 213. 


226 Leonid Andreyev 

memorable days of October, when the public mood was at the 
highest point of optimism, this story acted on the reader like an 
icy shower. Externally it presents a replica of the French revo¬ 
lution in its early stage, culminating in the execution of the king. 
But intrinsically it reflects the author’s skeptical contemplation 
of his countrymen’s passions and emotions, and his disparaging 
verdict concerning political revolution, as such. “Thus it was. 
Thus it will be” (in Russian: “tak bylo, tak budet”), tick-tacks 
cynically the pendulum of time, while a revolution is taking place 
below, a revolution against the king, a symbol of authority, a 
generic successor to a long series of ancestors, his very name 
being designated merely by a numeral—the Twentieth. How 
does a revolution take place? According to the author, 

The people simply unlearned to obey, that was all. And all at once, 
from out the multitude of separate trifling, unnoticed resistances, there 
grew up a stupendous, unconquerable movement. And as soon as the peo¬ 
ple ceased to obey, all their ancient sores opened suddenly, and wrathfully 
they became conscious of hunger, injustice and oppression. And they 
cried out about them. And they demanded justice. And they suddenly 
reared—an enormous shaggy beast, in one minute of free rage avenging 
himself on his tamer for all the years of humiliation and torture. 

Just as the millions of them had not held counsel to decide on obedience, 
so they did not come to an agreement about revolting; all at once the 
uprising rushed on to the Palace. . . . 9 

The rebels then proceed to capture the source of all suffer¬ 
ing, the epitome of oppression—the king. He is imprisoned in 
a solitary cell, beneath the tower where the pendulum indiffer¬ 
ently swings its “Thus it was. Thus it will be.” Even from 
his impregnable cell the king, the mysterious being, by grace of 
God inheritor of the all-powerful sceptre, inspires his subjects 
with awe and uneasiness. After many weeks of deliberation, the 
people’s representatives decide on trying the king. On the day 
of his trial the king is ceremoniously brought to the court, pre¬ 
ceded, surrounded and followed by a whole army—infantry, 
cavalry, artillery, watched by thousands of onlookers whose 

9 Ibid., pp. 264, 265. 


Collective Humanity 227 

curiosity is mingled with fear at the notion of a king being tried 
by ordinary mortals. Finally, in view of the breathless na¬ 
tional assembly he appears—the mystery of ages, the king: a 
commonplace, somewhat stout bourgeois, who in slight embar¬ 
rassment blows his nose loudly. The people are mystified, in¬ 
sulted. Is this all? Is this what they have venerated for gen¬ 
erations, what they have fought to overthrow, what has sym¬ 
bolized authority and tyranny? 

The implication is obvious. Man creates his own authority, 
whether it be God, or king, or priest, but in the course of time 
he forgets the origin of his creature, and worships it as divine 
and mysterious. Man creates authorities for himself, in sheer 
need of surrendering his freedom which is too heavy a burden, 
too great a responsibility. Of course, Andreyev speaks of the 
average man, as usual. The average man cannot endure the 
glare of freedom, for the reason that his slavery is not only ex¬ 
ternal, but also inner. He—the average man—is shocked at 
the insignificance of his traditional authority, when he visualizes 
it closely. Yet he is filled with fears. It is out of fear that 
the people decide to execute the mediocre, helpless person, the 
possessor of the esoteric title of king. Still the masses are 
restive, afraid more than ever. The newly acquired, extrane¬ 
ous freedom oppresses them, bewilders them. Everything 
seems to be in their power, the army is loyal to the new order, 
the Assembly humbly obedient. But they fear the responsibil¬ 
ity bestowed on them by their power, they fear they know not 
what, a contagious fear spreading like fire, growing into a gen¬ 
eral panic. Will they not set up a new king, for the sake of 
cozy comfort and irresponsible ease? Probably so. The shal¬ 
lowness of political revolutions which are not the result of the 
inner transformation of man’s mind is succinctly illustrated in 
the dialogue taking place between two citizens on the day of 
the king’s execution: 

“Authority must be destroyed.” 

“Slaves must be destroyed. There is no such thing as authority—slav¬ 
ery alone exists. . . .” 

“But do they not love freedom?” 


228 Leonid Andreyev 

“No, they merely fear the whip. When they shall have learned to love 
freedom, they will become free.” 10 

Andreyev evidently considers that to “unlearn to obey” does 
not yet mean to be innerly free. In the phraseology of Nietz¬ 
sche, it is not sufficient to be free from something: one must be 
able to be free for something. 11 In October, 1905, Russia ap¬ 
peared unanimous in its desire for a negative liberty, namely 
for freedom from the oppression of the autocratic regime. 
The unity of purpose, a negative purpose, made its achievement 
so easy. But as soon as the acquired freedom had to be molded 
into positive shape and form, the people proved their utter un¬ 
preparedness, in the sense of an inner change. The average 
citizen became afraid. He feared the workmen’s soviets which 
sprang up spontaneously during the general strike, he feared the 
relaxation of authority, the license of the press, the turbulent 
mass meetings, he was afraid of himself and still more for 
himself. The average citizen in the late fall of that year began 
to pray for the return of the old order which made life so se¬ 
cure for the unambitious, for one who had no dangerous ideas, 
or kept them to himself, if he had any. His prayer was ful¬ 
filled. 

In contemplating the superficiality of the average human mind, 
the shallowness of man’s strivings, and the ephemeralness of 
his achievements, one may lose heart and relinquish all attempts 
at breaking the wall with one’s skull. One may withdraw from 
this valley of futility into a lofty castle, whence one may soar 
above the wall bespattered with the blood and brains of the 
doomed lepers. Or one may throw one’s lot with the wall- 
smashers, faintly hoping with the half-demented leper that the 
heap of dead corpses may ultimately serve as a stepping-stone 
across the Wall. Andreyev suggests these alternatives in his 
play of the revolution, To the Stars, incidentally his first dra¬ 
matic attempt to be published (in 1905). 

10 Ibid., p. 297. 

11 “Frei nennst du dich? Deinen herschenden Gedanken will ich horen und 
nicht, dass du einem Joche entronnen bist . . . Frei wovon? Was schiert das 
Zarathustra? Hell aber soil mir dein Auge kunden: frei wozu?”— Also sprach 
Zarathustra: “Vom Wege des Schaffenden,” p. 92 (Z/ 7 erke — VII). 


Collective Humanity 229 

The action—though there is very little action in the play— 
takes place in an astronomical observatory, on a lofty moun¬ 
tain peak, where one does not hear the sounds of the life down 
in the valley. The master of the place is an astronomer, a sci¬ 
entist of international fame, a man of cosmic vision, who re¬ 
gards the universe sub specie aternitatis. He seldom leaves his 
observatory, and remains deaf to the revolution taking place 
below, though his children are active participants in the move¬ 
ment. In the battle with the government troops his son-in-law 
loses his legs, and his son, Nikolay, is w r ounded and taken pris¬ 
oner. The Astronomer remains unperturbed. He descends 
upon the agitated family and their friends as they are discuss¬ 
ing the tragic events and the ways and means for rescuing Nik¬ 
olay, the man who does not appear in the play, but whose 
magnetic personality and radiating nobility are felt all the time. 
The father languidly wonders: “Do they still kill down there? 
Are prisons still in existence?” His naive ignorance of reality 
is met with sneers on the part of his revolutionary daughter and 
her wounded husband, who even accuse him of callousness and 
smugness. But Andreyev displays great talent in compelling us 
to regard with respect and even sympathy the cold scholar who 
is unmoved by the heartrending sorrows of the children of earth, 
because he considers everything through the prism of eternity. 
For he ceases to be cold when the question of science is con¬ 
cerned. One feels his reserved ecstasy when he speaks of the 
infinite vistas of the human mind, of such revolutionaries as 
Galileo and Giordano Bruno, of the road to the stars, ad astra, 
also covered with the blood of seekers. One can see his point 
of view, whether agreeing with it or not, when he fails to grieve 
over the death of one man, be it even his son, because he is 
aware of the fact that “every second a whole world is probably 
destroyed in the universe.” To him all “dark shadows of the 
earth,” such as injustice, suffering, and death, are “vain cares,” 
for in the cosmic aspect life is triumphant, despite all the 
myriads of those who have perished and who will perish in its 
endless course. Though his son be lost, life at that same mo¬ 
ment restores the balance through the birth of some one as good 


230 Leonid Andreyev 

as Nikolay, “nay—better than Nikolay: nature knows no repe¬ 
tition.” He sees the misfortune of the average person in that 
he “thinks of nothing but his life and his death, wherefore he 
lives in terror and ennui, like a flea that has lost its way in a 
sepulchre.” 

Very few are in a position to mount the observatory of the 
Astronomer (Schopenhauer’s Contemplator or Nietzsche’s 
Higher Man), from whose height the earth and mankind with 
their problems and interests become dwarfed in size and in 
significance. Most of us are terrestrials who refuse to be con¬ 
sidered as mere cogs in some universal perpetuum mobile f serv¬ 
ing as means for some higher, imperishable goal. Marusya, 
Nikolay’s betrothed, one of the loveliest woman characters in 
Russian literature, cannot accept the Astronomer’s point of 
view, for she is a normal human being, attached to the soil, 
living her life in the midst of, not above, the battle. “I can¬ 
not,” she says to the Astronomer, “flee from the earth, I do not 
want to forsake it—’tis so unhappy. It breathes horror and 
grief, but it gave me birth, and I bear earth’s sufferings in my 
blood. Your stars are alien to me . . . Like a wounded bird 
my soul ever falls back to the earth.” 12 

In Nikolay, Marusya and their comrades Andreyev lovingly 
depicts those ardent dreamers who live and die for their dreams, 
and thus beautify both life and death. What matter if their 
struggle and sacrifice amount to the leper’s hallucination at the 
wall? With his wonted skepticism, ever present or felt in his 
writings, Andreyev nevertheless invariably pays tribute to these 
moths plunging into fire. Nikolay, absent in flesh from the 
stage, dominates it with his beautiful spirit of giving all of 
himself for the sufferers of the earth, and only an author with 
a feeling of reverence for his subject matter could endow this 
invisible character with such a powerful charm. The climax 
of contrasts comes in the last act, when we learn that the prison 
has robbed Nikolay not only of his bodily freedom, but also of 
his mind, as an effect of the beating administered td him and 
to his comrades by the jailers. Andreyev records here one of 

12 Works—VI, pp. 140, 141. 


Collective Humanity 231 

the habitual horrors in tsaristic Russia—the torture of political 
prisoners in ways both painful and humiliating. A number of 
interpellations were introduced in the Dumas, charging the gen¬ 
darmerie and police with employing torture chambers where 
political suspects were subjected to limb-breaking, hair-pulling 
and nail-tearing, and to other inventions of man’s depraved 
mind which would turn Torquemada’s henchmen green with 
envy. 13 There is therefore no exaggeration in Marusya’s 
description of the jailers breaking into the cells of the arrested 
revolutionists, and beating them up, one after another, boxing 
their ears, trampling them under their feet, mutilating their 
faces. 

They beat them long and terribly [she narrates to the Astronomer]— 
dull, cold brutes. Nor did they spare thy son: when I saw him, his face 
was horrible. The dear, beautiful face that smiled to the whole world! 
They tore his mouth, the lips that never uttered a word of falsehood. 
They nearly gouged out his eyes—his eyes that saw only the beautiful. . . . 

It was then that this terrible, deathly sorrow awakened in him. He 
reproached no one, he defended his jailers before me—his assassins, but 
in his eyes grew this black sorrow: his soul was dying. Still he kept 
on reassuring me, consoling me. Only once he said: “In my soul I 
bear all the sorrow of the world.” 14 

She ends her gruesome narrative with the statement that Nik¬ 
olay, this brilliant, soulful, magnetic man, has plunged into 
chaos, has become an idiot, an indifferent creature that will prob¬ 
ably grow stout and live long. For a moment Marusya seems 
about to follow the counsel of Job’s wife—curse God and die. 
What justification is there in a life where the best perish! Even 
the Astronomer loses his imperturbability for a few moments: 
his scientific, mathematical sense is outraged by the folly of the 
race, the madmen, the suicidal blind murderers of their proph¬ 
ets. “Were the sun suspended lower, they would put the sun 

13 Cf. The Stenographic Reports (Stenograficheskiye otchoty) of the second 
Duma (Petrograd, 1907), for the following sessions during the year 1907: April 2 
(v. I, pp. 1775 - 1777 ); April 3 (I, PP- 1542-1562); April 5 (I, pp. 1602, 1603); 
April 9 (I, pp. 1825, 1826); May 15 (II, pp. 597 “ 599 >- 

14 Works— VI, pp. 132, 133. 


232 Leonid Andreyev 

out—that they might expire in darkness,” he exclaims with con¬ 
tempt. But after this momentary weakness, both the Astron¬ 
omer and Marusya regain their strength, and appear even hard¬ 
ened, forged anew in their convictions. The mad folly of man¬ 
kind enhances the Astronomer’s contempt for things terrestrial 
and temporary, and reassures him of the wisdom of his course 
in pursuit of imperishable truths, of eternal goals. Moreover, 
when Marusya, prompted by her nostalgia for the earth, deter¬ 
mines to descend once again and carry on the struggle in which 
Nikolay has perished, the man of science gives her his blessing. 
He predicts that she, too, will perish, but that in her death she 
will acquire immortality, for like Nikolay she will join the chil¬ 
dren of eternity. “Only beasts die,” he says . . . “Only those 
who kill, die, but those who are killed, who are torn to pieces, 
who are burned—those live forever. There is no death for 
man, there is no death for the son of eternity!” 15 

To the Stars sounds the first encouraging note in Andreyev’s 
important works. Written in the revolutionary days of 1905, 
this play strikes a dissonance from Thus It Was, composed 
about the same time. 16 It is true, Andreyev seems to say in the 
drama, that “thus it was, thus it will be”; that the mass of hu¬ 
manity is steeped in slavery, inner slavery which cannot be cured 
through changes of ruling systems. In To the Stars we also 
hear that “thus it was,” that men have ever killed their proph¬ 
ets. But here a new note is introduced, to the effect that life is 
not futile, that struggle and sacrifice for the good and beautiful 
are not absurd and aimless, but possess an eternal value in the 
endless progress of the universe. The author appears to have 
discovered a harmony between the detached point of view of 
the Astronomer who soars in eternity and seeks his friends 
among the past and future explorers of scientific truth, and the 
point of view of Marusya who gravitates toward the earth and 
longs to give herself for those who suffer in the present. Both 
have found a goal to strive for. They stand in the observa- 

15 Ibid., p. 141. 

16 Gorky comments on Andreyev’s “painful” duality: “During one and the same 
week he was capable of chanting ‘Hosannah’ to the world, and of hurling an 
‘Anathema’ at it .”—A Book on Andreyev, p. 16. 


Collective Humanity 233 

tory, up in the heights, and while the Astronomer, his arms out¬ 
stretched toward the stars, sends his greeting to his “distant, 
unknown friend,” Marusya, extending her arms toward the 
earth, sends her greeting to her “dear, suffering brother.” 

Another encouraging feature in To the Stars may be found 
in the character of the workman, Treich. This is the only time 
that Andreyev pays his tribute to the revolutionary proletariat, 
presenting in Treich a powerful creator of new life, an indomi¬ 
table forger of destiny, reminding one of Gorky’s Nil (Smug 
Citizens) and Pavel (Confession ). To be sure, that was a 
time when the phrase “His Majesty the Russian Workman” 
reflected a formidable fact. The workmen were responsible 
not only for the success of the general strike, but also for the 
creation of the first Soviet, a labor parliament which arose spon¬ 
taneously in the days when the Government lost its head. Dur¬ 
ing the fall of 1905 the Petrograd Soviet of Workmen’s Dep¬ 
uties was the only public organ that enjoyed the confidence and 
respect of the country. Even after the publication of the con¬ 
stitutional Manifesto, Count Witte, the premier, repeatedly 
consulted with the Soviet through its first president, Hrustalev, 
soliciting its forbearance and cooperation. It was an impres¬ 
sive demonstration of the organization and class consciousness 
of the Russian proletariat, numerically so insignificant (count¬ 
ing less than three million throughout the Empire). Andre¬ 
yev reflected the general conception of the workingman’s power 
at the time, by putting into the mouth of Treich these words of 
calm self-reliance: 

We must go ahead. There has been some talk here about defeats, but 
there is no such thing. I know only victories. The earth is wax in the 
hands of man. We must maul, press—create new forms. But we must 
go ahead. If we meet a wall—we must destroy it. If we meet a moun¬ 
tain — we must remove it. If we meet a precipice—we must fly across 
it. If we have no wings—we must produce wings! . . . But we must go 
ahead, so long as the sun is shining . 17 

And when one of the Astronomer’s melancholy assistants ob- 


17 Works—VI, pp. 70, 71. 


234 Leonid Andreyev 

serves that the sun will be extinguished, Treich retorts noncha¬ 
lantly: “Then we must kindle a new one.” 

This major note, constructive, vigorous, hopeful, does not 
reappear in Andreyev. To the Stars was finished in Novem¬ 
ber 1905. 18 Events of deep disappointment followed this 
month. The Government soon discovered that it had over¬ 
rated the intelligence of the people, particularly that of the peo¬ 
ple in uniform, the army. The Government probed the peo¬ 
ple’s resistance, and found it feeble. Hrustalev, president of 
the Petrograd Soviet, was arrested—and the only reaction on 
the part of this body was a tactfully worded resolution, and the 
election of Leon Trotsky to that high post. In the meantime 
the conservatives and liberals grew impatient with the haughty 
tone of His Majesty the Workman, and became restive because 
of His Majesty’s demand for economic reforms. The average 
citizen began to sigh aloud for firmness and order. In response 
to the growing disintegration of the opposition, the Govern¬ 
ment arrested the Petrograd Soviet in full session. A general 
strike was declared. But the country proved weary of contin¬ 
uous strain and privations. Even the working class, the ad¬ 
vance guard of the revolution, had exhausted its power and en¬ 
durance, and responded to the summons without enthusiasm or 
unanimity. The strike was by no means general, which fact 
enabled the administration to crush it with the aid of trust¬ 
worthy troops, notably the Life Guards. The last brilliant 
page in the revolution of 1905 was turned by Russia’s ancient 
capital, Moscow. For nearly two weeks revolutionary squads 
of this city resisted the army. Unorganized, armed precari¬ 
ously, at best with Brownings and Mausers, these impractical 
dreamers attempted to resist from behind romantic barricades 
a modern military organization equipped with rifles, machine 
guns and cannon. Christmas found the city of many churches 
thoroughly pacified, silent as a graveyard. For Russia came a 
period of reckoning for the few weeks of freedom. Punitive 
expeditions were sent to various parts of Russia, led by officers 
who had gained no glory on the fields of Manchuria, and who 

18 The authorities forbade its production on the stage. 


Collective Humanity 235 

now tried to distinguish themselves in assaults against their own 
villages and towns. Martial law practically ruled the country. 
The Government, the reactionary press and the Church en¬ 
couraged the organization of the so-called Black Hundred so¬ 
cieties, like the Union of True Russian Men, or the Union of 
Archangel Michael, which employed the most unscrupulous 
means for the attainment of their aim—the persecution of those 
who disagreed with the Government’s policy, and of non- 
Orthodox citizens, particularly Jews. Russia suffocated in a 
torrent of violence, rapine, obscurantism—and disillusionment. 

In his play, Savva, Andreyev expressed the mood of the year 
1906. Treich’s tone of calm assurance, of patient and resolute 
force that defies obstacles and marches on, ever forward, ever 
creating new forms—was gone, like the snows of yesteryear. 
Savva is nervous, he sorely lacks poise. His slogan is: Ignis 
sanat. Thorough disgust with the order of things in the world 
prompts him to find the only solution in destruction, in fire. He 
scorns all other methods of opposition, and has contempt for 
all parties and organization. Indeed, which of the Left parties 
then in existence in Russia could he join? Surely not the Ca¬ 
dets, the liberals, professional opportunists who haggled and 
bargained and compromised with the Authorities. Both fac¬ 
tions of the Social-Democratic party, the Bolsheviki and the 
Mensheviki, limited their activity to propaganda by word, pre¬ 
paring the revolution through an educational process—too slow 
for such a fiery temper as that of Savva. The parties that did 
admit propaganda by deed, the Social-Revolutionists, the Max¬ 
imalists, the Anarchists, were too deliberative in the eyes of 
Savva, too u orderly” and u narrow-minded. His estimate of 
their terroristic acts against individual oppressors he expresses 
by way of a parable, the favorite style of the common people in 
Russia, to which Savva too belongs: 

They meet and meet, and weigh and consider a long time, and then— 
bang!—a sparrow drops dead. The next minute there is another spar¬ 
row in its place, hopping about on the very same branch . 19 


1 9 Works—VI, p. 176- 


236 Leonid Andreyev 

And a few lines below: 

Now you can’t clear a dense forest by cutting down one tree at a time, 
can you? That’s what they do. While they chop at one end, it grows 
up at the other. You can’t accomplish anything that way; it’s labor lost . 20 

No, Sawa has no patience with evolutionary stages, with 
compromises. He is a typical Russian Nihilist, with not too 
large a cultural background, one who has found a truth, and is 
bent on forcing it upon everybody else in its entirety —aut Casar 
aut nihil. His truth is neither new nor very deep, it is uncouth 
and elementary. To the question, Who is he that dares defy 
everything and all? he replies: 

Who am I? A man who was once born. Was born, and went out to 
look about. I saw churches—and penitentiaries. I saw universities— 
and houses of prostitution. I saw factories—and picture galleries. I saw 
palaces and filthy holes. I reckoned up, you see, how many jails there 
are to each gallery, and resolved: Everything must be annihilated . 21 

Everything. With the rectilineal simplicity of a child or a 
savage Savva deals in absolutes only. Modern civilization is 
to him a gigantic accumulation of stupidities that has grown 
into a mountain. In place of engaging in futile attempts at 
building new forms on the mountain, he proposes a more radical 
remedy—to erase the whole mountain, to lay the earth bare. 
He is jealous for the earth which “is worthy of kingly purple, 
yet is clad in convict clothes.” The earth must be freed from 
its hideous excrescences—the cities with their “stone graves.” 
All the old institutions must go, old literature, old art, all “hide¬ 
ous rags.” Savva’s programme calls thus for the liberation of 
man through the destruction of the ages-old fetiches and 
authorities that have kept him enslaved. First of all, God must 
be destroyed, the greatest enemy of freedom. Savva is an 
average Russian, hence concrete. He intends to explode with 
a bomb a tangible divinity, a miracle-working ikon in a famous 
monastery. At the time when thousands upon thousands of pil- 

20 ibid. 

21 Ibid., pp. 230, 231. 


Collective Humanity 237 

grims come from all over Russia to the monastery, to find cure 
and consolation through contact with the holy image, Sawa 
induces a friar to place a bomb behind the divinity. The ex¬ 
plosion would open the eyes of the people to the shameful traf¬ 
fic carried on by the monks at the expense of credulity and piety 
(even one of the faithful pertinently remarks that were not 
God immortal, His servants would have long sold him out piece 
by piece). More than that, the people would become convinced 
that dynamite is stronger than their God, and would proceed to 
conclude that man is the creator of both. 

Of course Savva fails utterly in his plan and purpose. One 
recalls the idea suggested in Thus It Was, that slavery is not 
the product of authority, but its creator. Savva fails to realize 
that man does not wish to be unchained. Man fears freedom, 
fears the responsibility of it. He craves for the supernatural, 
for miracles, for a heaven of bliss that would compensate him 
for earthly sorrow. The monks are better psychologists of 
the crowd, and ably supply the demand for sweet dupery. In¬ 
formed as to Savva’s plot, they manage to remove the ikon just 
before the explosion, and to replace it quietly after the deafen¬ 
ing blast. The masses are granted a new miracle. The monks 
make excellent use of the situation, and manufacture abundant 
enthusiasm, devotion, fanaticism, and—generosity. Savva and 
his devout sister, Lipa, watch the thousands of pilgrims who 
march by them singing hymns and shouting in ecstasy and joy. 
Says Lipa: 

Don’t you see what is passing by us? Human grief is going by. And 
you wanted to deprive them of their last possession, of their last hope, 
last consolation. And why, in the name of what? In the name of some 
savage, ghastly dream of a “bare earth” . . . To destroy Golgotha! To 
put out the brightest light that ever shone on earth! 22 

In the final scene of this powerful play Andreyev shows the 
collapse of unalloyed rationalism before the gregarious believ¬ 
ers, who willingly, blissfully allow themselves to be duped, to 
be lulled. At the same time the author expresses here his hor- 

22 Ibid., pp. 270, 271. 


238 Leonid Andreyev 

ror and contempt for the mob, this consolidated blind brutal 
force that surges like an elemental torrent, roars and thunders, 
and sweeps everything in its violent course. One shudders at 
the scene of the murder of Savva by the fanatical mob who tor¬ 
ture him and mangle his body —ad majorem Dei gloriam, shout¬ 
ing at the top of their voices the beautiful words: “Christ has 
risen from the dead. He has conquered death with death and 
given life to those who lay in their graves. . . 23 

Like To the Stars, Savva was denied the right of presenta¬ 
tion on the Russian stage. The Russian Government has ever 
been sensitive to “pernicious” influences. It gauged correctly 
the significance of Andreyev, more correctly than some profes¬ 
sional critics who scornfully dubbed him a-social, anti-social, 
and even reactionary . 24 However aloof Andreyev held himself 

23 Maxim Gorky was deeply chagrined at Andreyev’s treatment of the subject, 
which was based on an actual incident of a revolutionist attempting to destroy 
a popular ikon (see his reminiscences, in A Book on Andreyev, p. 29). As if in 
refutation of Andreyev’s portrayal of mobs, of Black Hundreds, who kill their 
friends, their prophets and saviors, Gorky published shortly after the appearance 
of Savva his own Confession. Here too a miracle-working ikon is worshipped^ 
Throngs of sick and cripples are lined along the procession, fervently hoping 
to be restored to health by the passing image. The ikon is carried aloft by the 
singing, ecstatic multitude. And here Gorky states his faith in mass action. 
So powerful is the united will of the people, so potent their concentrated faith, 
that the miracle actually takes place, and the narrator bursts out in a panegyric 
of God—the people: “Thou shalt have no other gods but the people.” 

There is another angle in this picture of mass movement and action that in¬ 
vites comparison with other Russian writers. Tolstoy in War and Peace, describ¬ 
ing the inspection of the troops by Emperor Alexander I, presents the marching 
men as united in common worship of their tsar, and in their readiness to die 
for him. The emotion produced in men at the sight of their monarch is sug¬ 
gestively explained by Vsevolod Garshin in his Reminiscences of Private Ivanov, 
the autobiographical sketch which contains a few masterly pages describing the 
military inspection by Alexander II. As in War and Peace, the soldiers are 
mad with ecstatic joy, and are ready to plunge into fire at the merest hint of 
their ruler. One word in that description suggests the reason for this sensation 
—-“irresponsibility.” Once you are a part of the mass, of the mob, of the herd, 
you become free from the terrific burden of responsibility, of individual thinking 
or acting. On the other hand, you show your reverence and admiration for him 
who assumes responsibility for your actions—be it a tsar, or a commander, or a 
god, or a party leader. 

24 Arabazhin, on pages 95 and 96 of his book on Andreyev, quotes to this effect 
Messrs. Filosofov and Merezhkovsky. Curiously enough, these two writers, who 
accused Andreyev of reactionism, threw in their lot, after the Bolshevik revolution, 
with the blackest anti-Soviet forces, and even went so far as to assist the Poles 
in their attack against Russia. 


Collective Humanity 239 

from political groups and from any movements, however skep¬ 
tical sounded his estimate of these and of all skin-deep revolu¬ 
tions, the fact remained that he bore a social message. More 
profoundly and efficiently than revolutionary propagandists did 
Andreyev sow seeds of discontent with existing conditions and 
institutions. More than any other contemporary writer did he 
succeed in generating a critical attitude in his readers, a criticism 
that affected the very root of things, hence so dangerous in the 
eyes of the perspicacious authorities. 

By way of illustration. The years that followed 1905 were 
stigmatized with the sobriquet of “Stolypin’s collar.” The 
premier’s policy was laconically defined by himself from the 
Duma tribune: “First pacification, then reforms.” Russia 
was subjected to a process of pacification which amounted to 
martial law. The ordinary apparatus of justice, corrupt and 
servile though it was, appeared too slow and complicated for 
Stolypin, who inaugurated therefore a regime of field court- 
martial, a simple and speedy affair, seldom exceeding twenty- 
four hours, and usually resulting in the same verdict to be 
hanged. The average citizen, eager for firmness and the res¬ 
toration of law and order, was furnished with an appetizer for 
every meal by the press accounts of the number of persons 
hanged in various parts of the Empire at the dawn of each day. 
In time of war or revolution the average person grows callous 
and accustomed to swallow with his bread the news about the 
slaughter of the nation’s best sons and daughters. (“Man gets 
used to everything, the scoundrel,” says Dostoyevsky’s Hobble¬ 
dehoy.) At such times it remains for the few to wake the con¬ 
science of the slumbering herd. The octogenarian Tolstoy 
came out with his stirring I Cannot Be Silent, a powerful ar¬ 
raignment of the governmental hangmen, a pathetic offer of his 
own “old neck” for the executioner’s noose. Yet this direct ap¬ 
peal of the greatest man of Russia did not possess as indelible, 
as haunting an influence as Andreyev’s Story Of The Seven That 
Were Hanged. For whatever greatness of spirit and nobility 
of purpose Tolstoy’s protest possessed, it lacked the one indis¬ 
putable quality of Andreyev’s Story —suggestive art. 


240 Leonid Andreyev 

In simplicity of style, in keen psychological analysis, in hu¬ 
mane sympathy, and in its lasting effect, this story is probably 
Andreyev’s best. The deep conviction which the reader is 
bound to carry out of this work is that there can be no justifica¬ 
tion in taking another’s life. This conviction grows on you 
gradually and irresistibly as you commune wth the seven doomed 
persons in the last hours of their earthly existence. Not 
only are you shocked by the slaying of the five political terror¬ 
ists, young idealists sacrificing themselves for an idea; your feel¬ 
ings are outraged even by the execution of the two common 
criminals who happen to be tried by a military court the ele¬ 
mental rover, Tsiganok, and the stupid, somnolent Esthonian, 
Yanson, who brutally killed his master under the influence of 
liquor, and who mutters in broken Russian one and the same 
refrain: “You must not hang me.” It sounds like the cry of 
human blood, since times primordial setting forth the unanswer¬ 
able question: Who gave man the right to judge and to take 
the life of his fellow man? 

Aside from discrediting capital punishment, the Story raises 
another interesting problem—the meaning of death for those 
who have sacrificed their life. To one of the five terrorists, 
Vasily Kashirin, death is that horrible scarecrow that appears 
on man’s forward march, hissing into his ear the paralyzing, 
What’s the use? In spite of all his efforts to be brave to the 
end, Vasily loses all his vitality from the moment of the an¬ 
nouncement of the death verdict: he is killed outright. The 
spectre of nonexistence deprives him of his reflective faculty, 
robs him of his habitual idealism and fearlessness in action, 
turns him into a corpse. Human justice is accomplished: a 
beautiful vessel, a fair form, is reduced to dead clay. But not 
so with the other four. To them death is painful only in the 
aspect of earthly relations; as, for instance, in the scene where 
Sergey Golovin’s aged parents come to say good-bye to their son 
on the eve of the execution. But, left alone with themselves, 
these four face the approaching end without fear or regret. 
Sergey’s father is a retired colonel, and he admonishes his son, 
also a former officer, to die like a soldier. Indeed, they die 


Collective Humanity 241 

rather like the early Christians, imbued with love and happiness. 
Sergey’s healthy, muscular body rebels for a moment against its 
oncoming destruction, but Sergey’s spirit easily conquers the 
carcass, and he meets death as gallantly and unostentatiously 
as he has lived. Of the two girls, Tanya Kovalchuk remains to 
the end the mother protectress of her comrades, utterly self- 
oblivious, caring to the very last moment for the little comforts 
of her “children,” bestowing a friendly smile on one, an encour¬ 
aging stroke on another. The other girl, Musya, radiates with 
the fire of immortality. Still in her teens, she blushes at the 
perspective of joining the glorious martyrs of the revolution. 
And when she succeeds in persuading herself that in spite of 
her youth and brief service she may be worthy of the halo about 
to descend on her head, there is no limit to her joy. So, 

she has been taken into the pale. Rightfully she has entered the ranks 
of those bright heroes who go to heaven through flames, tortures and 
executions. Serene peace and quietly radiating, infinite happiness. She 
seemed already to have departed from the earth, to have drawn near to 
the mysterious sun of truth and life, and, disembodied, she hovers in its 
light . 25 

And as Musya reflects on her destiny, her heart overflows 
with a wave of ardent love for all humanity, for the whole 
earth, and she experiences keen bliss. “Is this really death?” 
she asks herself in happy amazement. “My God, how beauti¬ 
ful it is! Or is it life?” She falls asleep, an ecstatic smile on 
her lips. 

To-morrow, when the sun shall rise, this human face will be distorted 
in an inhuman grimace, the brain will be inundated with thick blood, 
and the glassy eyes will protrude from their orbits—but to-day she sleeps 
peacefully, and smiles in her great immortality . 26 

She has become a “child of eternity,” as the Astronomer 
would say, a sister of Giordano Bruno. The chapter on Musya 
bears the title, “There Is No Death.” In the chapter, “Walls 

25 Works—VIII, p. 59. 

26 ibid., p. 65. 


\ 


V. 


242 Leonid Andreyev 

are Crumbling,” we encounter a more complex personality, that 
of a hardened terrorist passing under the name of Werner. 
Throughout his revolutionary activity he has obeyed his intel¬ 
lect rather than his emotion. In the course of his collisions 
with his enemies, and of his contact with his comrades, Werner 
has acquired a deep contempt for all men, himself included. 
Haughty, cruel, reserved, bored, he has mechanically continued 
to carry out his hazardous work of a terrorist, and as coldly and 
indifferently he meets the expected end. During the court pro¬ 
ceedings and the reading of the verdict, Werner is all absorbed 
in a complicated game of chess which he plays on an imaginary 
board. But in his solitary cell, awaiting execution, the hard 
misanthrope becomes surprisingly aware of a sensation of joy 
and liberty: 

Yes, of liberty. I think of to-morrow’s execution, and it seems not to 
exist. I look at the walls, and they seem not to exist either. And I feel 
so free, as though I were not in prison, but had just come out of some 
prison in which I have been confined all my life . 27 

Life and men assume a new aspect in his transformed vision. 
All the baseness and meanness, all the evil and ugliness, all the 
traits and phenomena that caused his erstwhile contempt for the 
race, appear to him now in the light of pathetic naivete, of child¬ 
like awkwardness, to be pitied and pardoned. Werner, con¬ 
sidered by his comrades as flint-like in his severe reserve, feels 
his heart bursting with emotion and his eyes overflowing with 
tears as he addresses humanity in an ecstatic whisper: “My 
dear friends. My dear comrades.” His love, like that of 
Musya, expands and soars above time and space, becomes cosmic, 
and thereby lifts Werner above the walls of his prison, above 
the fear of death, above the contempt for life, lifts him to the 
heights of Schopenhauer’s “conqueror.” 

With that wondrous illumination of the spirit, which in rare moments 
descends upon a person and raises him to the highest peaks of contempla¬ 
tion, Werner suddenly perceived both life and death, and was struck with 

27 ibid., p. 84. 


Collective Humanity 243 

the magnificence of the unique spectacle. He seemed to be walking along 
the crest of a tremendously high mountain, as narrow as the edge of a 
blade. On one side he saw life, and on the other he saw death, like two 
sparkling, deep, and beautiful seas, merging into one another at the hor¬ 
izon in a single infinite vista. 28 

Thus the revolutionists prove victorious over death in the 
last moments of their life, and at the very execution. Unosten¬ 
tatiously they exchange light friendly remarks before being 
strung up, and spontaneously echo Musya, who recalls at ran¬ 
dom a fragment from a song: 

The shores of life cannot contain 
My love, as broad as the sea. 29 

At dawn seven lives were snuffed out. “Thus did men greet 
the rising sun,” Andreyev concludes the gruesome paragraph 
about the dead bodies “with elongated necks, bulging eyes, and 
blue tongues protruding from their mouths.” Yet in spite of 
the gloomy conclusion, the Story is most exhilarating and stim¬ 
ulating, in that it justifies life, struggle, striving, self-sacrifice, 
through the exalted feeling of immortality. 

One must bear in mind that to Russians, and to those who 
know Russia, the Story is not mere rhetoric, not a purely imag¬ 
inative piece of writing about something that does not exist in 
life. Before 1917, Russian revolutionary terrorists ranked 
with saints in public sentiment, and with good reason. Those 
men and women who were chosen by the central revolutionary 
committee for the highly responsible work of terror had to un¬ 
dergo a long and thorough test as to their moral integrity, de¬ 
votion to the cause, and fearlessness. When one turns to the 
biographies of Russian terrorists, one finds invariably that they 
were gentle souls, incapable, in their private life, of harming a 
fly. How great must have been their faith in the justness of 
their cause, and how deep their conviction of the correctness of 
their methods, to turn them into cold-blooded homicides and 
bomb throwers. One who was chosen for the action considered 

28 ibid., p. 85. 

29 Ibid., p. 106. 


244 Leonid Andreyev 

himself or herself, as the case might be, at the apogee of 
achievement, at the grand finale of life. For surely none of 
those who went into action expected to survive it; all antici¬ 
pated either being blown up by their own explosive when hurl¬ 
ing it at the victim, or executed by the authorities after the 
usual, perfunctory trial. Thus the prospective homicide became 
eo ipso a suicide. Of great human interest are the farewell 
letters or diary notes of the convicted terrorists, which were oc¬ 
casionally smuggled through by friendly or mercenary jailers. 
In them the men and women, very few of whom ever passed 
their twenty-fifth year, who were about to die, parted with life 
without rancor or remorse, proud of their martyrdom, hopeful 
about the future of humanity, and pathetically tender toward 
their surviving relatives and comrades. One need only recall 
the last utterances of such revolutionists as Zhelyabov, Zotov, 
Kogan-Bernstein, Balmashev, Kalyayev, Konoplyannikova— 
words spoken at a moment when affectation is unthinkable, when 
one’s self is revealed crystalline and purged. 30 Thus Andre¬ 
yev’s saint-like heroes appear real and convincing not only be¬ 
cause of the artistic power with which they are drawn, but also 
because one meets in them familiar features, features of Rus¬ 
sia’s best sons and daughters, however erring they may have 
been in their means or aims. 

In the generous spirit of Russia’s revolutionary youth, Andre¬ 
yev perceived a readiness to sacrifice not only their bodies, but 
even their souls. In the year preceding the composition of The 
Seven That Were Hanged ,—that is, in 1907,—he had writ¬ 
ten a story, Darkness, wherein the hero, a proud terrorist, be¬ 
comes ashamed of his moral loftiness on encountering a prosti¬ 
tute, who hates him for his purity, spits at him, and hurls into 
his face the severe maxim: “ ’Tis a shame to be good, when 
such as I exist.” Andreyev lets his hero be persuaded, not 
quite logically, of the weightiness of the prostitute’s argument. 
He concludes that moral privileges are as unjust as economic 

30 Some of these letters may be found in English, e. g., in Olgin’s The Soul of 
the Russian Revolution, p. 338 ff. (New York, 1917), or in A. J. Sack’s The Birth 
of the Russian Democracy, p. 88 ff. (New York, 1918). 


Collective Humanity 245 

or political privileges, and he casts away his glorious life of 
danger and resignation, even his “immortality,” to plunge into 
“darkness,” to merge with filthy humanity, with the Lumpen- 
proletariat. Not quite logically, because in his very decision 
that it is not “right” to be “good,” and in his resolution to be 
“bad” out of solidarity and sympathy, he deals in purely ethical 
values, and thus continues to be good and self-sacrificing in spite 
of his rational self. The story caused considerable discussion 
at the time, as it fitted the atmosphere of general disappoint¬ 
ment in the revolution, on one hand, and of the spreading filth 
and crime in life and letters, on the other. As has already been 
mentioned, the failure of the revolution disheartened the Intel¬ 
ligentsia, and drove them either into the ranks of mystics and 
religionists, or in the direction of carnality and pornography. 
But aside from its timely appeal, Darkness impresses the reader 
as pure head work, not felt through and lived through by the 
author, as were his other productions. 

Quite different in this respect is Andreyev’s nouvelle, Sashka 
Zhegulev } published in 1911. From the first to the last page 
it breathes a lyrical sadness, a tender sympathy with the char¬ 
acter of the story. Indeed, the nouvelle presents a poem in 
prose, beautiful in style and rich in incomparable Russian land¬ 
scapes and folk scenes. It reflects one of the sad phenomena in 
Russian life during the “pacifying” regime of Stolypin, the 
wave of “expropriation.” This term was originally applied to 
the tactics of the “Maximalists,” the extreme wing of the 
Social-Revolutionists, which seceded from the party after the 
Moscow barricades, and launched a series of grandiose expro¬ 
priations, or hold-ups, to employ a sound Americanism. The 
Maximalists limited their activities to state institutions, such as 
state banks, post offices, army treasuries, carrying out their per¬ 
formances in broad daylight and before public eyes, with the aid 
of hand grenades and revolvers. Their aim was twofold—to 
replenish the party funds and to harass the Government. No 
one questioned their disinterestedness, while their extraordinary 
bravery spread around them a romantic halo. Impressionable 
individuals, particularly among young people, were stimulated 


246 Leonid Andreyev 

to follow in the footsteps of the popular heroes, just as Wild 
West shows work on the imagination of American lads. To 
this universal trait of youth should be added the fact that 
Russia was in an extremely nervous state of mind in those years 
of rousing events—war, revolution, punitive expeditions, field 
courts-martial, events that impelled sensitive natures to seek un¬ 
usual sensations and adventures out of the ordinary. Expro¬ 
priations, so-called, usually perpetrated by amateurish bands 
of young men, often high-school students, primarily from love 
of adventure, spread like wild fire through the country. It was 
only natural, however, for professional brigands and robbers to 
exploit this morbid sentiment, by frequently joining the puerile 
dreamers, and infecting them with their own prosaic aims and 
vulgar tendencies. 

Andreyev must have been deeply moved by the daily accounts 
of these exploits. He was probably stirred in particular, as 
Lvov-Rogachevsky suggests, 31 by the wide-open staring eyes on 
the death photograph of Savitsky, a gentle lad who for three 
years terrorized the authorities in an Ukrainian district. He 
led a band of peasants, attacked wealthy landowners, divided 
the spoils among the needy, and was worshipped by the popula¬ 
tion. Finally he was betrayed, and discovered by the police 
lying sick in a barn. He fought to the end, until his body was 
“literally like a sieve from the bullets that pierced it.” In his 
coat pocket was found a copy of The Seven That Were Hanged . 
The case of Savitsky was by no means unique, and Andreyev’s 
story possesses, aside from its psychological value, the value of 
a social phenomenon in the turbulent Russian reality. 

Sashka Zhegulev treats the same theme as Darkness, only 
emotionally instead of intellectually. A note of pathos rings 
through the entire work. While Darkness gives the impres¬ 
sion of a labored problem in dogmatic ethics, here we are swept 
away by hardly definable emotions. In Darkness the revolu¬ 
tionist commits a moral harakiri when his intellect proves to 
him, somewhat sophistically, that he has no right to be “good” 
so long as there are “bad” people in this world. In the non - 
31 Tw Truths, p. 123. 


Collective Humanity 247 

velle, Sasha Pogodin becomes transformed into Sashka Zheg- 
ulev . 32 The first, Pogodin, is a genteel, noble youth, with an 
austere countenance and severe dark eyes, resembling a Byzan¬ 
tine ikon. This pure, tender boy, deeply loved by his mother, 
also resembling a Byzantine ikon, turns into a brigand by the 
nickname of Zhegulev. What impels him to commit this pain¬ 
ful metamorphosis is not quite clear. The author gives us poet¬ 
ical hints as to certain voices, voices of Russia, calling to Sasha 
in his beautiful home surroundings, under the loving care of his 
mother, the chummy friendship of his sister, and the awakening, 
still vague, feeling between him and a schoolmate, Zhenya. 
The opening of the story, written in a style reminding one of 
the later Sologub, suggests the leit-motif of the drama: 

Love thirsts for quenching, tears seek for respondent tears. And when 
the soul of a great people sorrows, then all life is in a turmoil, every living 
spirit quakes, and the pure of heart go to slaughter. 

So it was even with Sasha Pogodin, a youth beautiful and pure: life 
had chosen him for the quenching of its passions and pangs, had opened 
his heart for prophetic voices, unheard by others, and with his sacrificial 
blood it filled a golden cup to the brim. Sad and tender, beloved by all 
for the beauty of his face and for the austerity of his ideas, he was quaffed 
to the bottom of his soul by thirsting lips, and died early; by a lonely and 
terrible death did he die. And he was buried together with evil-doers 
and murderers, whose lot he shared of his own free will; and he left no 
good name, and there is no cross on his unknown grave. 33 

In the voluntary “fall” of Sasha Pogodin to the lower depths 
of Sashka Zhegulev who leads, and fraternizes with, social 
dregs and outcasts, who tramples his own gentle soul in pools of 
human blood shed by him, in this sacrifice of one’s all—tastes 
and attachments and dear ones and traditions—Andreyev sym¬ 
bolizes the terrific price which young Russia had to pay for the 
sins of their fathers. For Pogodin is the son of a general, he 
belongs to that small group of cultured, well-to-do, European- 

32 Both Sasha and Sashka are derivatives from Alexander, but Sashka is em¬ 
ployed in a somewhat depreciative connotation, and is used among the common 
people. 

33 IVild-Rose Almanacks, No. 16, p. 11. Petrograd, 1911. ( Works — XIV, p. 1). 


248 Leonid Andreyev 

ized Russians who have acquired their elegance and comfort at 
the expense of the sweat and blood of the millions of inarticu¬ 
late, illiterate, poverty-stricken, oppressed and persecuted beasts 
of burden—the peasants. Pogodin (if we may so interpret An¬ 
dreyev’s rather vaguely expressed idea) is the twentieth century 
prototype of the Repentant Noble of the seventies in the pre¬ 
ceding century. He feels the need of atoning for the crimes of 
his fathers, of giving back to the people what he owes them. 
But he is no longer the worshipful Narodnik who sees in the 
people only angelic traits, meekness and tolerance, communis¬ 
tic equality and brotherly love. Pogodin is the Narodnik 
grown wise and sober. The voices that call him are the ele¬ 
mental voices of primitive humanity unfettered by codes and 
precepts. In the Volga forests, at the campfire, the youthful 
chief watches his merrymaking band, listens to their songs of 
abandon, to the frantic balalaikas, to their nonchalant remarks 
about violence committed and to be committed—and he feels 
himself in the grip of a powerful Russia, anarchic, nihilistic, de¬ 
structive, avenging itself on those who are good and beautiful 
and wise. Like the terrorist in Darkness, Pogodin is ashamed 
of being good, and he, too, has plunged into darkness. 

What renders the darkness still blacker and gloomier is the 
inevitable profanation of Pogodin’s ideal. He left his clean 
environment in obedience to the powerful urge that emanated 
from the mysterious voices of Mother Russia, and he set forth 
to lead the submerged masses in an amateurish campaign of re¬ 
venge against those to whom he belonged by birth and bringing 
up. With fire and sword he has terrorized the land, burning 
and killing and expropriating those surcharged with earthly pos¬ 
sessions and power, in favor of the dispossessed. But soon 
there appeared false Sashka Zhegulevs, ordinary brigands, who 
engaged in rank robbery, making no discrimination in regard 
to the victim’s status, and using the spoils for themselves. And 
when Pogodin-Zhegulev tried to uphold his own, higher stand¬ 
ard, his band failed to appreciate the fine line of demarcation 
between regular brigandage and elemental popular revenge. 


Collective Humanity 249 

Broken in spirit and heart, he is finally betrayed to the police, 
and meets his death bravely, like Savitsky. 

So on a day preordained by those who lived before him and had bur¬ 
dened with their sins the Russian land—there died a shameful and terrible 
death, one Sasha Pogodin, a noble and unfortunate youth. 34 

From the Russo-Japanese war, through the Red Sunday, the 
October revolution, the wholesale executions, the wave of or¬ 
ganized and unorganized terror, through the whole gamut of 
the national drama that served as a prelude to the greater 
drama, to come a decade later, Andreyev watched and listened 
and meditated. His utterances were seldom hopeful or en¬ 
couraging, more often skeptical and melancholy, yet the Rus¬ 
sian public owes him a debt of gratitude for having kept his 
post at the watch tower, indefatigably ringing the bell of alarm, 
stirring the conscience and stimulating the thought of his coun¬ 
trymen. Moreover, Andreyev did not remain altogether ob¬ 
jective and impartial. Despite reason and logic, and doubts 
notwithstanding, his heart was with those who struggled against 
the Wall. From a Story Which Will Never he Finished, writ¬ 
ten in 1909, is a most beautiful tribute to man’s readiness for 
sacrifice in the name of a fine cause. Barricades are being con¬ 
structed in the street in the dead of the night, and the blows 
of the hammers sound like music to the wife who sends her hus¬ 
band out to meet the wonderful adventure, and the little son 
wakes, and puts his warm little arms around his father’s neck, 
gravely whispering his adieu into his ears. Lightly steps the 
husband and father into the night, a new being, oblivious of his 
everyday attachments and bonds, elevated above time and space, 
obedient to the ineffable impulse to gain immortality through 
giving oneself for an ideal. One cannot read this brief sketch 
without emotion and hopeful pride for the human race. As 
long as our race is versatile, variegated in tendencies, tastes, 
aspirations, points of view; as long as we are what we are— 
conflict is unavoidable. And as long as there is conflict, and 

34 ibid., p. 19$. 


250 Leonid Andreyev 

as long as there are men willing to fall in conflict, the glorious 
story of human advance will, indeed, never be finished. 

But the major note of this story sounds rather like a disson¬ 
ance in the writings of Andreyev. The revolution, with its dis¬ 
play of personal heroism and altruism, appeals to the author’s 
feeling, and he pays homage to Russia’s noble fighters in such of 
his works as To the Stars, The Seven That Were Hanged, 
From a Story Which Will Never he Finished, and allegorically 
perhaps even in his early sketch, The Wall. But in Andreyev 
the doubting intellect prevails against feeling, even when he re¬ 
bels against “thought.” “Thus it was; thus it will be” is his 
predominant attitude toward collective humanity, its activity 
and intelligence. Inner slavery is what he regards as the root 
of all our evils, religious, social, political, economic. This 
thesis is formulated in his play, Tsar Hunger, which may be 
considered the climactic summary of his social writings, in the 
same way as The Life of Man culminates his first period—of 
the individual and his problems. 

Andreyev’s Tsar Hunger (1907) is a personification of mod¬ 
ern society, with emphasis on its economic interrelations. The 
very title suggests the author’s notion as to the primum mobile 
of human actions, the insatiable Desire which serves simulta¬ 
neously as the master of the needy and as the lackey of the opu¬ 
lent. 35 Hunger motivates the workmen’s acquiescence as well 
as their rebellion. In the gigantic factory, to the deafening 
blows of the sledgehammers, workmen worship the almighty 
Machine, sing hymns and pray to it. The men have lost their 
individual personalities: some of them have become wheels, 
others screws, belts, joint-pins, hammers. Upon the entrance 
of their all-powerful, autocratic leader, Tsar Hunger, the slaves 
eagerly surround him and pour out their grievances. Andre¬ 
yev presents three categories of workmen. The First Work¬ 
man is of Herculean build, of overdeveloped muscles and op¬ 
pressive physical strength, wearing on his huge trunk a tiny head 

35 Third Workman: “. . . Here you are a tsar, but there you are a lackey 
about their tables. Here you wear a crown, but there you walk about with a 
napkin .”—Tsar Hunger, First Scene. Works — IX, p. 30. 


Collective Humanity 251 

with dim eyes conveying servility and dullness. Old as the 
earth, he has performed since time immemorial gigantic toil, 
altering the appearance of the earth. But he cannot think, he 
cannot comprehend the wherefore of his existence, he only 
threatens to lift his enormous hammer and “crack the earth as 
a hollow nut”—as a relief from his overwhelming strength and 
stupidity. This category is a sphinx pregnant with unmensur- 
able possibilities, whose nature may depend largely upon the 
CEdipus that will try to read the riddle. The third group ap¬ 
pears hopelessly dehumanized. Its representative, the Third 
Workman, is “a vapid, blanched man, as if long, all his life, he 
had been drenched in corroding solutions. His voice is also 
colorless; and when he talks, it seems as if millions of wan, 
colorless beings, almost shadows, were whispering.” Between 
this cog of a machine and the pin-headed muscular giant, An¬ 
dreyev places the Second Workman, the dreamer, the idealist, 
who visions beauty and love. Though young, he is already 
wasted, and coughs. He resents the gloomy point of view of 
his comrades, slaves of Hunger and the Machine, and he pities 
the dullness of the First Workman. He is loth to follow Tsar 
Hunger’s call to revolt, he believes that there is another tsar, 
a different moving power than the despair of want; but when 
pressed to name this other tsar, he is unable to name him. 
Who, indeed, can lead and direct and urge slaves, machine cogs, 
more surely than hunger? 

Andreyev’s judgment of the working class may be too severe. 
The three varieties he introduces are too sweeping generaliza¬ 
tions. To be sure, one may find a happy combination of the 
First and Second Workmen, of great physical power with noble 
idealism. In the fall of 1905, the Russian workman presented 
such a combination, and Andreyev paid him tribute in Treich, 
o i To the Stars. But while the latter play is realistic, Tsar 
Hunger is symbolic, the kind of drama which permits the author 
to deal in broad abstractions and in large generalities, overlook¬ 
ing exceptional particulars. In this work Andreyev sets out 
with the purpose of showing the shallowness and meanness of 
society as a whole, in all its ramifications. In his treatment the 


252 Leonid Andreyev 

working class does not fare worse than other classes. Up and 
down the conventional hierarchy of social strata we encounter 
nothing but negative traits. At the very bottom swarms the 
micrencephalous mob composed of the scum of modern life, “the 
most horrible that poverty, vice, crime and eternal insatiable 
hunger of the soul can create.” At the meeting of these crea¬ 
tures the chairman calls to order the “Misses harlots and car¬ 
rion, and Messrs, hooligans, pickpockets, cutthroats, and 
pimps,” and opens the discussion as to the methods of universal 
destruction, the motive for this being revenge for the state in 
which the assembled find themselves. Suggestions are made 
to poison the aqueducts, to release the wild beasts in the zoo¬ 
logical gardens, to infect society with the diseases of the mob, 
to burn all books, which they hate. But their Father, Tsar 
Hunger, helps them to realize their sinister power in the very 
fact of their existence. 

Tsar Hunger: “Who is then powerful, if not you, beloved children 
of Hunger? . . . Even now . . . are you not the darkness which 
quenches their lights? Do you not, in expiring, effuse the venom that 
poisons them? You are the soil of the city, you are the groundwork of 
their life, you are the sticky carpet to which their feet adhere. Great 
darkness emanates from you, my children, and their miserable lights hope¬ 
lessly quiver in the gloom.” 36 

With glee the mob hears the tsar’s announcement of the com¬ 
ing revolt and his invitation for them “to sneak among the peo¬ 
ple softly, like black shadows—and ravish, slay, steal and laugh, 
jeer!” This flotsam and jetsam, this indictment of society, al¬ 
ways participates in public upheavals, clings to mass movements, 
exploits social calamities and festivities, “catches fish in muddy 
water.” Revolutions, however great of purpose and lofty of 
intention, are seldom spared the profanation inflicted on them 
by the filthy touch of hooliganism. The unenviable reputation 
of the Bolsheviki, to cite an instance, is due in part to the fact 
that their leaders unleashed, for a time at least, the passions 
of the mob, in consequence of which numerous crimes perpe- 
88 Ibid., pp. 56, 57. 


Collective Humanity 253 

trated by professional malefactors have been laid at the door 
of those responsible for the revolution of November, 1917. 

Nor does Andreyev flatter the classes in power. He has no 
faith either in the proletariat or in the bourgeoisie. Democ¬ 
racy (Thus It Was) inspires him with as little respect as plutoc¬ 
racy. The latter state is so virulently drawn in Tsar Hunger 
as to leave no doubt as to the author’s deep aversion and con¬ 
tempt for the triumphant money classes. The masters of the 
revolting slaves buy with their money every institution, every 
product of the human mind that may help them to maintain 
slavery. We witness in the drama the prostitution of justice, 
the subjugation of the church, the monopolization of art pro¬ 
ductions, the domination over science—by and for the moneyed 
class. At the moment of the revolt the masters involuntarily 
reveal their real selves, and pressed by fear for their safety 
and even life, they display base cowardice, vulgarity, absurd 
selfishness, utter disregard for those moral and aesthetic values 
which they so boastfully claim to uphold in normal times. They 
abuse the priest, whose God appears bankrupt, and who has 
failed to befog the minds of the slaves into pious obedience and 
submission. With indignation they jeer at the artists who be¬ 
wail the destruction of works of art in the museum set afire 
during the battle (not by the mob, to mark in passing, but by 
the cannon of the masters). And disdainfully they turn their 
backs upon the Professor who appears half-demented from 
grief at the sight of the books being destroyed by the infuriated 
mob. They discard all their alleged virtues, sentiments, and 
devotions, at this moment of frankness, when they shout vocifer¬ 
ously: “ ’Tis we, we, we, who may perish . . . Do you un¬ 
derstand? We, we, we,” implying that nothing else matters. 
Their mortal fear is allayed only at the appearance of the En¬ 
gineer, who represents science, one of the handmaids of the 
masters. The Engineer reports the successful end of the re¬ 
volt owing to the latest product of science, an improved type of 
cannon, which has performed excellent service mowing down its 
producers, the rebels. 

Does Andreyev find a single hopeful element in modern so- 


254 Leonid Andreyev 

ciety? Hardly. The artists and the Professor, it is true, ap¬ 
pear in the end as the only persons who care for higher interests, 
and not merely the safety of their physical selves. But even 
these are in the grip and at the mercy of the bourgeoisie in time 
of peace and “normalcy.” From time to time there appears 
in the drama the Girl-in-Black, who evidently represents the In¬ 
telligentsia, those who are endeavoring to rise above class 
selfishness and greed. Her attempts are pathetic in their 
futility. She is aware of the violence and injustice practiced by 
her class—the possessors—over the dispossessed, and is trying 
to make amends by expressing her sympathy with the latter, 
even her readiness to share their fate. But she recoils from the 
low-browed youth who frankly admits that he would ravish and 
kill her if he had a chance. And she is infuriated when her 
proffered hand is refused with hatred by the young woman 
whom circumstances have compelled to drown her own child. 
The Girl-in-Black finds it impossible to merge with, or even to 
be trusted by, the lower strata. At least she rises above the 
rest in the rebellion scene, indignant at the egotistic cowardice of 
the bourgeoisie. Abandoned as a madwoman, she asks for 
music, she is determined at least to die beautifully! The trag¬ 
edy of the Girl-in-Black is in a large measure the tragedy of 
the Russian Intelligentsia, the gruesomeness of which has been 
displayed most strikingly since the revolution of 1917. 

Andreyev’s attitude toward collective humanity is a logical 
consequence of his attitude toward individual man; it is as con¬ 
sistent as that of his admired philosopher, Schopenhauer (and, 
indeed, of Nietzsche). Once we accept the view that man is a 
slave of his blind, despotic will, we are bound to arrive at the 
conclusion that the will of the state or of society presents in¬ 
dividual will multiplied. Man’s institutions are instruments of 
the will, designed for the furtherance of its unlimited power 
and absolute authority. Since man is by nature brutal and 
selfish, 37 his government and public institutions present organ- 

37 “Der Egoismus ist eine so tief wurzelnde Eigenschaft aller Individualist 
uberhaupt, dass, um die Tatigkeit eines individuellen Wesens zu erregen, egoist- 


Collective Humanity 255 


ized selfishness and pettiness, for the purpose of preserving in¬ 
justice and violence, and of maintaining might at the expense of 
right. 38 Clashes between one organized violence and another 
—that is between states—naturally result in wars, since life 
presents helium omnium contra omnes. 39 Within the state, 
violence is organized in the form of social and economic in¬ 
equality, the exploitation of the toil and sweat of the slaves by 
their masters, for the production of variegated and multiple 
commodities designed to quench (temporarily) man’s bottom¬ 
less Will, grown complex and jaded, by those who are afforded 
a minimum of these products. This economic slavery exists in 
every state, whether an oriental despotism or a democratic re¬ 
public. 40 


ische Zwecke die einzigen sind, auf welche man mit Sicherheit rechnen kann.”— 
Die Welt . etc., II, Chapter 44, p. 556 ( Werke—II). Or this satanic sentence: 
“Mancher Mensch ware imstande, einen andern totzuschlagen, bloss um mit dessen 
Fette sich die Stiefel zu schmieren .”—Grundlage der Moral, No. 14, p. 346 {Werke 


—III). 

38 “Der Staat ist . . . so wening gegen den Egoismus iiberhaupt und als solchen 
gerichtet, dass er umgekehrt gerade aus dem sich wohlverstehenden, methodisch 
verfahrenden, vom einseitigen auf den allgemeinen Standpunkt tretenden und so 
durch Aufsummirung gemeinschaftliehen Egoismus aller entsprungen und diesem 
zu dienen allein da ist, errichtet unter’ der richtigen Voraussetzung, dass reine 
Moralitat, d. h. Rechthandeln aus moralischen Griinden, nicht zu erwarten ist; 
ausserdem er selbst ja uberfliissing ware. Keineswegs also gegen den Egoismus, 
sondern allein gegen die nachteiligen Folgen des Egoismus, welche aus der Vielheit 
egoistischer Individuen ihnen alien wechselseitig hervorgehen und ihr Wohlsein 
storen, ist, dieses Wohlsein bezweckend, der Staat gerichtet.” Die Welt, etc. 

I, No. 62, p. 390 ( Werke — I). 

39 “Diese Raubtiere des menschlichen Geschlechts sind die erobernden Volker, 
welche wir, von den altesten Zeiten bis auf die neuesten, uberall auftreten sehn, 
mit wechselndem Gliick . . . daher eben Votaire Recht hat zu sagen: Dans toutes 
les guerres il ne s’agit que de voler. Dass sie sich der Sache schamen, geht daraus 
hervor, dass jede Regierung laut beteuert, nie anders, als zur Selbstverteidigung, 
die Waffen engreifen zu wollen.”— Paregra und Paralipomena, No. 124, p. 222 
{Werke—IV). 

40 “Zwischen Leibeigenschaft, wie in Russland, und Grundbesitz, wie in England, 
und iiberhaupt zwischen dem Leibeignen und dem Pachter, Einsassen, Hypotheken- 
schuldner und dgl. m., liegt der Unterschied mehr in der Form, als in der Sache.” 
— Ibid., No. 125, p. 222. 

“Armuth und Sklaverei sind also nur zwei Formen, fast mochte man sagen zwei 
Namen, derselben Sache, deren Wesen darin besteht, dass die Krafte eines Men- 
schen grossenteils nicht fur ihn selbst, sondern fiir andere verwendet werden; 
woraus fiir ihn teils Ueberladung mit Arbeit, teils kargliche Befriedigung seiner 
Bedurfnisse hervorgeht. . . . So . . . entspringt also jenes Uebel, welches, ent- 
weder unter dem Namen der Sklaverei, oder unter dem des Proletariats, jederzeit 
auf der grosscn Mehrzahl des Menschengeschlechts gelastet hat, Die entfera- 


256 Leonid Andreyev 

Thus far Andreyev’s views coincide with those of Schopen¬ 
hauer. Nietzsche’s solidarity with Schopenhauer in regard to 
the state is well known. To him the state is the “coldest of all 
cold monsters,” 41 “organized immortality,” 42 born of vio¬ 
lence . 43 Andreyev, as we have said before, fuses the negative 
views of the two philosophers, and since he professes to be 
much nearer to Schopenhauer, we need not, at this juncture, dis¬ 
cuss Nietzsche’s views. What should be noted here is that 
Andreyev fails to follow either of them in their final evaluation 
of the state from the aspect of expediency. He never utters a 
word of justification for the existence of this “monster,” 
whereas both Schopenhauer and Nietzsche consider the state as 
a necessary evil. Because of the inherent egotism of human 
beings, it is for their own good that the authority of the state 
should regulate their interrelations and keep them from mutual 
destruction. Schopenhauer refuses to grant the state a posi¬ 
tive moral value , 44 but he justifies its existence as a “Schutzan- 
stalt,” 45 as a protection against aggression from without, and 
individual violence from within. Nietzsche also credits the 
state with exercising a salutary control of human passions, with 
substituting justice for revenge, and he even bestows on the 
state the privilege of super-moral actions . 46 

tere Ursache desselben aber ist der Luxus. Damit namlich einige wenige das Ent- 
behrliche, Ueberfliissige und Raffinierte haben, ja, erkiinstelte Bediirfnisse be- 
friedigen konnen, muss auf dergleichen ein grosses Mass der vorhandenen Men- 
schenkrafte verwendet und daher dem Notwendigen, der Herforbringung des 
Unentbehrlichen, entzogen werden.”— Ibid., pp. 223, 224. 

41 “Staat heisst das kalteste aller kalten Ungeheuer.”— Also sprach Zarathustra: 
“Von neuen Gotzen,” p. 69. 

42 Wille zur Macht, No. 717 ( Werke — X, p. 2). 

43 Zur Genealogie der Moral — II, No. 17 (v. VIII, pp. 381, 382).—Also, Wille 
zur Macht, No. 755 (v. X, pp. 23, 24). 

44 “Der Staat und das Reich Gottes oder Moralgesetz sind so heterogen, dass 
ersterer eine Parodie des letzteren ist, ein bitteres Lachen iiber dessen Abwesenheit, 
eine Kriicke statt eines Beines, ein Automat statt eines Menschen.”— Neue Parali- 
pomena, p. 142, §212, v. IV of Handschriftlecher Nachlass (Reclam, Leipzig). 

“. . . Hieraus folgt, dass die Notwendigkeit des Staats, im letzten Grunde, auf 
der anerkannten Ungerechtigkeit des Menschengeschlechts beruht: ohne diese wiirde 
an keinen Staat gedacht werden. . . .’’—Paregra, etc.— II, No. 123, p. 220 (Werke 
—IV). 

45 Die Welt, etc. — II, Chapter 47, pp. 614 ff. ( Werke — II). 

46 Zur Genealogie der Moral— II, No. 11 (Werke— VIII, pp. 364, 365); Wille 
pur Macht, No. 734 (v. X, pp. n, 13), 


Collective Humanity 257 

Similarly, in his indignation against governmental oppression, 
violence and executions, Andreyev parts company with both 
philosophers. For it follows from their utilitarian conception 
of the state, that its preservation warrants coercive measures 
and Machiavellian methods . 47 The author of The Seven That 
Were Hanged digresses from Schopenhauer, who definitely ap¬ 
proves of capital punishment as a means for the security of the 
state . 48 The state cannot afford to tolerate attempts at the 
subversion of its established forms and interrelations, hence it 
is justified in punishing individual transgressions and in suppress¬ 
ing mass uprisings. Andreyev’s Governor has merely per¬ 
formed his duty, in ordering the slaughter of the rebellious 
workmen. The bourgeoisie in Tsar Hunger are within their 
rights when they employ cannon against the slaves in revolt. 
The state is in danger when such occurrences take place as the 
one described in Thus It Was. Between despotism and an¬ 
archy Schopenhauer chooses the first . 49 Moreover, he prefers 
monarchy to any other form of government, because he regards 
human beings as similar to beasts and insects, in that they need 
a single leader . 50 

Andreyev is frequently torn between his reason and his feel- 

47 “Das Recht an sich selbst ist machtlos: von Natur herrscht die Gewalt . 
Unmittelbar kann immer nur die physische Gewalt wirken; da vor ihr allein die 
Menschen, wie sie in der Regel sind, Empfanglich'keit und Respekt haben. . . . 
Also allein die physische Gewalt vermag sich Respekt zu verschaffen.”— Paregra— 
II, No. 127, pp. 228, 229 (v. IV). On Machiavelli— ibid., end of No. 126, p. 228. 
Nietzsche’s “organizierte Unmoralitat,” Wille zur Macht. No. 717 (v. X, p.. 2). 

48 «Der dem Gesetze zufolge der Todesstrafe anheimgefallene Morder muss jetzt 
allerdings und mit vollem Recht also blosses Mitt el gebraucht werden. Denn die 
offentliche Sicherheit, der Hauptzweck des Staates, ist durch ihn gestort, ja sie ist 
aufgehoben, wenn das Gesetz unerfullt bleibt: er, sein Leben, seine Person, muss 
jetzt das Mittel zur Erfullung des Gesetzes und dadurch zur Wiederherstellung 
der offentlicher Sicherheit sein, und wird zu solchem genmacht mit allem Recht, 
tur Vollziehung des Staatsvertrages . . ”—Die Welt, etc., I, No. 62, p. 394 {Werke 
—/). 

Nietzsche emphasizes the point that a state, like an organism, must “excrete” 
(exkretiren) criminals and anarchists. Wille zur Macht, No. 50 (Werke — IX, 
p. 43). Also Nos. 52, 81, 237, 238 {ibid., pp. 44, 66, 182, 183, 184). 

49 Neue Paralipomena, p. 177. 

50 “Ueberhaupt aber ist die monarchische Regierungsform die dem Menschen 
natiirliche; fast so, wie es den Bienen und Ameisen, den reisenden Kranichen, den 
wandernden Elefanten, den zu Raubzugen vereingten Wolfen und andern Tieren 
mehr ist, welche alle einen an die Spitze ihrer Unternehmung stellen.”— Paregra, 
etc. — II, No. 127, p. 233 ( Werke — IV). 


258 Leonid Andreyev 

ing. His reason tells him of the stupidity and inner slavery of 
the masses, and leads him to declare the futility of revolution 
(in Thus It Was, for example), wherein he agrees with 
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche . 51 Logically, he should proceed 
to defend the state and its institutions, as indispensable for the 
protection of the slaves from themselves and from outsiders. 
But, inconsistently, Andreyev goes over on the side of emotion, 
which dictates his unreserved hatred for the “cold monster” 
and its various agencies, and warm admiration for the futile 
fighters. Temperamentally Andreyev belongs to the rank and 
file of humanity, however strongly his intellect prompts him to 
align himself with the “few,” the “higher men.” 

51 “Die Revolution hat neue Hausnummern gemacht; das einzige von ihr, was zu 
bleiben verdient.”—Letter to Frauenstadt, September 26, 1851, Schopenhauers 

Briefe, p. 179 (Reclam, Leipzig). 

“‘Freiheit’ brullt ihr Alle am liebsten: aber ich verlernte den Glauben an 
‘Grosse Ereignisse,’ sobald viel gebriillt und Rauch um sie herum ist. Und glaube 
mir nur, Freund Hollenlarm! Die grossten Ereignisse—das sind nicht unsre laut- 
esten, sondern unsre stillsten Stunden .”—Also sprach Zarathustra: “Von grossen 
Ereignissen,” p. 193. 

Nietzsche’s aversion to subversive movements grows out naturally from his con¬ 
tempt for democracy, socialism, the idea of equality. Cf. fVille zur Macht, Nos. 
75 2 > 753 , 755 ( Werke—X, pp. 23, 24). 


IV 

PROBLEMS OF REASON AND MORALITY 


Apparent contradictions in Andreyev’s outlook.—He exalts reason as a 
perpetual quest.—Rejects dogmatic, presumptuous reason.— 
“Man according to Schopenhauer”—Schopenhauer’s Sufficient 
Reason.—Nietzsche’s Small Reason.—Mystery of Self. The 
Black Maskers. —Duke Lorenzo’s castle.—Courage of self- 
analysis.—Reason versus faith.—Religion as an expedient. 
Value of suffering: “King Herod.”—Dogmatic reason: Judas 
and the Apostles.—Dogmatic common sense: My Memoirs .— 
The formula of the Iron Grate.—A caricature of Tolstoy?— 
Adaptability—a modern fetich.—Peace and war.—Restless in¬ 
tellect: Judas’s “test.”—Repetition of theme: Anathema, 

seeker of phenomenal knowledge.—Success of Anathema s test. 
—Small Reason versus Great Reason.—Immortality.—Schopen¬ 
hauer’s liberating, transcendental knowledge.—Immortality 

through altruism: David, Musya, Werner.—“Heroic” life.— 
Andreyev’s adherence to Schopenhauer’s positive ideal implies his 
divergence from Nietzsche.—Nietzsche’s “overcoming” of Scho¬ 
penhauer.—Will-to-power, ruthless creative force.—Acceptance 
of life and pain.—Masters and Slaves.—Rejection of pity, al¬ 
truism, equality.—Personalism.— The Ocean. —Haggart—super¬ 
man, Mariet—humanity, Horre—brutal force.—Haggart’s adapt¬ 
ability.— The rejection of Nietzsche’s moral standard.—An¬ 
dreyev’s duality.—His quest of a synthesis.—Resemblance to 
Nietzsche. 

Andreyev lacks unity of outlook. He is torn with discord¬ 
ant ideas and with discrepant sentiments. As a result his at¬ 
titudes appear at times mutually contradictory, particularly with 
regard to intellect, thought. Explicitly, he disparages human 
thought, demonstrates its treachery, futility and impotence (as, 
for example, in Thought, Anathema). At the same time one is 
aware of his passion for searching, probing, never-resting 

259 


260 Leonid Andreyev 

thought. In presenting the victims of thought, he adorns them, 
by implication, with the thorny crown of heroes. Defeat does 
not prove the wrongness of endeavor. As will be shown in the 
course of this discussion, the duality of Andreyev’s attitude to¬ 
ward man’s reasoning faculty is not altogether contradictory. 
He exalts reason in its function of uncompromising quest after 
ultimate goals and meanings. He rejects reason when it pre¬ 
sumes to solve and settle problems dogmatically. The former 
attitude goads him on to question and doubt, to destroy and 
overturn, causing him and his readers heartbreaking disappoint¬ 
ments and disillusions. Indeed, it is this attitude which brings 
him so near to Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. His contempt for 
mental peace and quiescence, his readiness for interminable bat¬ 
tle with established conceptions, his willingness to forgo popu¬ 
larity, and to enjoy the unenviable reputation of a crank and 
advocatus diaboli t make him eligible to the rank of “Man ac¬ 
cording to Schopenhauer,” in the expression of Nietzsche. 
This man, to use the words of Henri Lichtenberger, “insoucieux 
de sa propre souffrance, insoucieux aussi des souffrances qu’il 
cause autour de lui, soutenu dans sa marche douloureuse par 
l’inebranlable volonte d’etre vrai et sincere a tout prix,” 1 or, 
in Nietzsche’s own words: 

Der Schopenhauerische Mensch nimmt das freiwillige Leiden der 
IVahrhaftigkeit auf sich, und dieses Leiden dient ihm, seinen Eigenwillen 
zu ertodten und jene vollige Umwalzung und Umkehrung seines Wesens 
vorzubereiten, zu der zu fiihren der eigentliche Sinn des Lebens ist. 
Dieses Heraussagen des Wahren erscheint den andern Menschen als 
Ausfluss der Bosheit, denn sie halten die Conservirung ihrer Halbheiten 
und Flausen fur eine Pflicht der Menschlichkeit und meinen, mann miisse 
bose sein, um ihnen also ihr Spielwerk zu zerstoren. Sie sind versucht, 
einem Solchen zuzurufen, was Faust dem Mephistopheles sagt: “so setzest 
du der ewig regen, der heilsam schaffenden Gewalt die kalte Teufelsfaust 
entgegen”; und der, welcher Schopenhauerisch leben wollte, wiirde 
wahrscheinlich einem Mephistopheles ahnlicher sehen als einem Faust— 
fur die schwachsichtigen modernen Augen namlich, welche in Verneinen 
immer das Abzeichen des Bosen erblicken. Aber es giebt eine art zu 

1 La Philosophic de Nietzsche, p. 53. 


Reason and Morality 261 

verneinen und zu zerstoren, welche gerade der Ausfluss jener machtigen 
Sehnsucht nach Heiligung und Erretung ist, als deren erster philosophi- 
scher Lehrer Schopenhauer unter uns entheiligte und recht eigentlich ver- 
weltlichte Menschen trat. Alles Dasein, welches verneint werden kann, 
verdieent es auch verneint zu werden; und wahrhaftig sein heisst. an ein 
Dasein glauben, welches iiberhaupt nicht verneint werden konnte und 
welches selber wahr und ohne Liige ist . . . Gewiss, er [der Schopen- 
hauerische Mensch] vernichtet sein Erdengliick durch seine Tapferkeit, er 
muss selbst den Menschen, die er liebt, den Institutionen auss deren 
Schosse er hervorgegangen ist, ieindlich sein, er darf weder Menschen 
noch Dinge schonen, ob er gleich an ihrer Verletzung mitleidet, er wird 
verkannt werden und lange als Bundesgenosse von Machten gelten, die er 
verabscheut, er wird, bei dem Menschlichen Maasse seiner Einsicht un- 
gerecht sein miissen, bei allem Streben nach Gerechtigkeit. . . . 2 

One can hardly doubt Andreyev’s predilection for this type 
of thinking and feeling. He, indeed, filled the office of a Me- 
phisto in the eyes of society, with his incessant efforts to smash 
its “toys.” Nietzsche’s words to the effect that whatever can 
be denied deserves to be denied, coincide with the opinion 
of another thinker whose influence Andreyev acknowledges, 
namely, Pisarev, who preached the desirability of smashing 
right and left, without fear of destroying something worth sav¬ 
ing, since only those things that will survive the smash-up will 
thereby prove their right to exist. Furthermore, Andreyev fits 
Nietzsche’s definition of the Schopenhauerian man, in that his 
denial and destruction also emanated from a “powerful aspira¬ 
tion for holiness and deliverance,” the motive which impels him 
to “take upon himself voluntarily the pain of telling the truth,” 
to be “an enemy to the men he loves and to the institutions in 
which he grew up,” “to spare neither person nor thing.” 

Andreyev’s negative attitude to presumptuous reason, omni- 
cient and dogmatic, harmonizes in the main with the views of 
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. Both of these philosophers scoff 
at the pretensions of our intellect to independence and power. 
Schopenhauer limits our knowledge to the world of appear¬ 
ances, and even then it is incomplete. “Sufficient Reason” is 

2 Unzeitgemdsse Betrc chtungen—Ul: “Schopenhauer als Erzieher,” pp. 251-253 
(Werke —//). 


262 Leonid Andreyev 

governed by the all-powerful Will, is its tool and toy, and is 
bound to be defeated when it attempts to understand and inter¬ 
pret the unknowable, the Thing-in-itself, that which is beyond 
mere appearances. 3 Nietzsche calls our intellect “Small Rea¬ 
son,” a plaything of the “Great,” mysterious Reason, which is 
our Self—our body, our feelings, and our thoughts combined. 4 

The mystery of our Self, our ignorance of its elements and 
motives, and the demonstration of the resulting poverty of our 
knowledge, are illustrated in several of Andreyev’s works, no¬ 
tably in The Abyss, Thought, The Black Maskers. The first 
two stories have been mentioned before (pp. 200—204). In 
The Abyss , the student Nemovetsky, pure and idealistic in the 
eyes of the world, as well as in his own opinion, is hurled into 
an abyss by his brutal instinct, whose dormant existence he has 
not suspected. This was Andreyev’s first attempt at probing 
man beneath mere appearance, and it was followed by the sub¬ 
tler study of the unknown and unknowable Self, in Thought. 

3 “Nun aber ist der Wille allein das Beharrende und Unveranderliche im Be- 
wusstsein. Er ist es, welcher alle Gedanken und Vorstellungen, als Mittel zu 
seincn Zwecken, zusammenhalt, sie mit der Farbe seines Charakters, seiner Stim- 
mung und seines Interesses tingiert, die Aufmerksamkeit beherrscht und den Faden 
der Motive, deren Einfluss auch Gedachtniss und Ideenassoziation zuletzt in Tatig- 
keit setzt, in der Hand halt: von ihm ist im Grunde die Rede, so oft ‘Ich’ in einem 
Urteil vorkommt. Er also ist der wahre, letzte Einheitspunkt des Bewusstseins und 
das Band aller Funktionen und Akte desselben: er gehort aber nicht selbst zum 
Intellekt, sondern ist nur dessen Wurzel, Ursprung und Beherrscher.”— Von den 
nuesentlichen Unvolkommenheiten des Intellekts, in Die Welt, etc., II, p. 145 
(Werke II), and practically the entire Chapter 15. Professor Hoffding regards 
Schopenhauer’s philosophy as “a systematized doctrine of the limitation and im¬ 
potence of reason ."—History of Modern Philosophy—II, p. 215. New York, 1915. 

4 “Der Leib ist eine grosse Vernunft, eine Vielheit mit einem Sinne, ein Krieg 
und ein Frieden, eine Herde und ein Hirt. Werkzeug deines Leibes ist auch deine 
kleine Vernunft, mein Bruder, die du ‘Geist’ nennst, ein kleines Werk—und Spiel- 
zeug deiner grossen Vernunft. ‘Ich’ sagst du und bist stolz auf dies Wort. Aber 
das Grossere ist—woran du nicht glauben willst—dein Leib und seine grosse 
Vernunft: die sagt nicht Ich, aber tut Ich . . . Werk—und Spielzeuge sind Sinn 
und Geist: hinter ihnen liegt noch das Selbst . . . Hinter deinen Gedanken und 
Geftihlen, mein Bruder, steht ein machtiger Gebieter, ein unbekannter Weiser— 
der heisst Selbst . . . Dein Selbst lacht uber dein Ich und seine stolze Spriinge. 
“Was sind mir diese Spriinge und Fliige des Gedankens? sagt es sich. Ein Umweg 
zu meinem Zwecke. Ich bin der Sangelband des Ichs und der Einblaser seiner 
Begrieffe!”— Also sprach Zarathustra: “Von der Verachtem des Leibes,” pp. 46- 
47 {Werke—VII). 


Reason and Morality 263 

In the drama of Kerzhentsev we see a proud, masterful, seem¬ 
ingly self-sufficient and independent intellect come to grief 
through its betrayal by one unaccountable thought, which has 
nestled in his brain and destroyed his lordly “castle.’ This one 
thought could not be controlled by the Doctor s brilliant intel¬ 
lect, it came from the obscure regions of the Self, and brought 
mockery and ruin upon the “Small Reason, the Sufficient 
Knowledge.” The theme evidently pursued Andreyev. Eleven 
years after the publication of Thought (1902) he dramatized 
it, under the same title and without essential changes, and had 
it produced at the Moscow Art Theatre (season of 19 1 3 “ 
1914). Between these two moments he wrote (in 1908), and 
presented on the stage, one of his most baffling plays, The Black 
Maskers . 

The symbols of this play, beyond the understanding of the 
average theatrical audience, are quite comprehensible in the 
light of the ideas we are now discussing. Duke Lorenzo di 
Spadaro, a knight of the Holy Grail, graceful, generous, poetic, 
beloved, gives a ball in his castle which he orders illuminated in 
the brightest manner possible, that his guests may see their way 
in the night. Generous and hospitable, amiable and charitable, 
the Duke expects nothing but joy and pleasure. For is he not 
worthy of happiness, his conscience clear, his thoughts lofty and 
beautiful, his desires modest and proper, his heart true and 
sound, his devotion to his people integral, his love for his wife, 
Francesca, boundless and irreproachable? To his chagrin the 
guests appear wearing hideous, repulsive masks representing 
monstrous thoughts and brutal passions, crime and pettiness, 
falsehood and treachery. The Duke does not recognize his 
strange visitors, but they declare themselves to be none other 
than his thoughts, his desires, his heart, his mind, his unuttered 
sentiments. His horror and bewilderment become climactic 
when he perceives in the throng a mask of himself, his alter ego . 
He challenges the impostor and kills him, but the wound is vis¬ 
ible on his own breast. The ball ends in confusion, since be¬ 
side the invited guests who have appeared in allegorical masks, 


264 Leonid Andreyev 

the castle is gradually filled with black creatures, children of the 
night, who are lured by the light and the fires, and who quench 
all light with their bodies. Duke Lorenzo discovers many new 
things. His soul—his castle—illuminated with the powerful 
light of analysis and experience, he becomes cognizant of nu¬ 
merous unsuspected brutes and imps slumbering within his Self, 
and also of the nameless, shapeless passions and impulses which 
emerge out of the darkness at the call of the light. He also 
discovers that the very nobility of his birth is dubious, as he 
learns of the illicit relations between his mother and their stable 
groom. At the coffin of his double he overhears the peasants 
relating his own misdeeds, his maltreatment of rustic maidens, 
the ruin brought on their sons and fields by his crusading cam¬ 
paigns. He even fails to recognize Francesca, for he is ap¬ 
proached by several maskers closely resembling the woman 
whom he has considered unique, unrivaled, unmistakably 
his. 

Bewildering in its multiplicity appears the Great Reason with 
the strong light turned on it. Indeed, it requires reckless cour¬ 
age to project such a merciless light on one’s castle, for the very 
existence of the castle is then jeopardized. The tragedy of the 
magnificent Duke is the tragedy of Andreyev, of Nietzsche, 5 of 
any bold spirit fond of perilous brinks and indifferent to possible 
consequences. Such as these spurn the common-sense maxim 
formulated by Pushkin: “Dearer to us than bitter truths is de¬ 
ception which exalts our self.” They do not wince before dan¬ 
ger, nor do they blink their eyes in face of the dazzling light, but 
greet it as a savior from debasing complacency. Duke Lorenzo, 
rather than bear in his heart snakes and monsters, rather than 
suffer the coexistence in him of masks and doubles, purges him¬ 
self in the all-powerful fire which consumes his castle, that while 
perishing in the blaze he may exclaim: “But I assure you, Signor: 


5 I have it on the authority of Mme. Andreyev that in creating Duke Lorenzo 
her husband had in mind the tragic personality of Nietzsche. On the other hand, 
Andreyev’s diary contains material hinting with indubitable transparency at the 
author’s personal experiences, revelations and discoveries during the eventful year 
of 1908, which he reflected in the drama of Lorenzo. 


Reason and Morality 265 

Lorenzo, the Duke of Spadara, has no snakes in his heart.” 6 
With all his disbelief in the effectuality of Small Reason, of 
autonomous intellect, Andreyev is drawn time and again to 
present it rather sympathetically, hereby confirming his duality. 
Even in Thought we feel that the author himself is lured to 
the dizzy heights where Dr. Kerzhentsev is performing his 
mental acrobatics. In The Life of Vasily Fiveysky reason bat¬ 
tles with faith, and proves victorious. Here Andreyev shows 
the incompatibility of the two elements in a sincere person. 
Like Schopenhauer, he thinks that knowledge and belief cannot 
harmoniously coexist in one mind, the former being sure to de¬ 
vour the latter. 7 As long as reason is silent in Vasily, he 
stoutly believes together with his flock. Mankind is in need of 
some formulation of universal truth and justice and power, of 
some symbol of supreme authority guiding them, responsible 
for their destiny, atoning for and justifying their sufferings and 
death. Such a formulation the masses find in popular religion, 
which requires implicit faith untouched by the worm of reason. 8 

6 Did Andreyev have in mind the self-burning of Nietzsche in his own flame? 
One recalls Nietzsche’s glowing lines: 

Ecce homo— 

Ja! Ich weiss, woher ich stamme! 

Ungesattigt gleich der Flamme 
Gliihe und verzehr’ ich mich. 

Licht wird alles, was ich fasse, 

Kohle alles, was ich lasse: 

Flamme bin ich sicherlich! 

—Die Frohliche Wissenschaft, p. 56 ( Werke — VI). 

The symbolic pregnancy of The Black Maskers is shown by the breadth of the 
play’s applicability. Thus we find that shortly before his death, when his creative 
urge gave place to rumination upon his former works, Andreyev discussed the re¬ 
semblance of Lorenzo’s tragedy to the tragedy of Russia under the Bolsheviki supra, 
p. 174. See also supra, p. 109-110, for Andreyev’s “explanation” of the Black Maskers. 

7 “Glauben und Wissen vertragen sich nicht wohl im selben Kopfe: sie sind 
darin wie Wolf und Schaf in einem Kafig; und zwar ist das Wissen der Wolf, 
der den Nachbar aufzufressen droht.”— Paregra, etc.: “Ueber Religion,” pp. 360, 
361 ( IVerke — IV). 

8 Cf. Schopenhauer: “Die Religion ist das einzige Mittel, dem rohen Sinn und 
ungelenken Verstande der in niedriges Treiben und materielle Arbeit tief ein- 
gesenken Menge die hohe Bedeutung des Lebens anzukiindigen und fiihlbar zu ma- 
chen . . . Die Religion ist die Metaphysik des Volks . . . Wie es eine Volkspoesie 
gibt und, in den Sprichwortern, eine Volksweisheit; so muss es auch eine Volks- 
metaphysik geben; denn die Menschen bediirfen schlechterdings einer Ausleguttg 
des Lebens, und sie muss ihrer Fassungskraft angemessen sein. Daher ist sie 
allemal eine allegorische Einkleidung der Wahrheit, und sie leistet in praktischer 
und gemuthicher Hinsicht, d. h. als Rischtschnur fur das Handeln und als Beruhi- 


266 Leonid Andreyev 


But as soon as experience jolts Vasily out of the slough of con¬ 
tentment, and he begins to question and to evaluate and probe, 
desperately endeavoring to prove to himself the justness and 
wisdom of our world of tears and pain, his equilibrium is de¬ 
stroyed, and he perishes. 

Vasily cannot endure the dazzling light of reason which kills 
faith, destroys comfort and generates doubt and despair. But 
the majority of men escape this tragedy, through spurning rea¬ 
son. The instinct of self-preservation urges them to close their 
eyes to logic, and to seek refuge under the wing of authority. 
The masses fear responsibility more than anything else, and 
they eagerly entrust it to some other power, be it king or god. 
In Thus It Was we see the people terrified by the newly ac¬ 
quired freedom, and they appear like helpless sheep bereft of 
their shepherd. Savva, endeavoring to open the eyes of the 
blind believers to the fraud practised on them by the monks, is 
stoned to death. They reject Savva’s terrible gift—cold rea¬ 
son, and choose the warm comfort of faith in miracles and 
supreme authority. 

Vasily fails to see any reason in human suffering, when this 
is not regarded as a punishment by a just God for some sin. 
But to Andreyev, as to Schopenhauer, 9 suffering is the essence 


eune und Trost im Leiden und im Tode, vielleicht ebensoviel, wie die Wahrheit, 
wenn wir sie besassen, selbst leisten konnte.” Ibid., pp. 296-297. Nietzsche agrees 
with Schopenhauer in crediting religion with serving as a disciplinary medium for 
mankind, keeping them content with their condition, giving them vielfachen 
Frieden des Herzens, eine Veredlung des Gehorsams, ein Gluck und Leid mehr 
mit Ihres-Gleichen und etwas von Verklarung und Verschonerung, etwas von 
Rechtfertigung des ganzen Alltags, der ganzen Niedrigkeit, der ganzen Halbtier- 
Armut ihrer Seele.”— Jenseits von Gut und Bose, No. 61, pp. 85-87 ( Werke VIII). 
Also Wille zur Uacht— II, No. 135, pp. 108, 109 {Werke—IX). 

9 “Jedoch, wie unser Leib auseinanderplatzen miisste, wenn der Druck der 
Atmosphare von ihm genommen ware;—so wiirde, wenn der Druck der Not, 
Miihseligkeit, Widerwartigkeit und Vereitelung der Bestrebungen vom Leben der 
Menschen weggenomen ware, ihr Uebermuth sich steigern, wenn auch nicht bis 
zum Platzen, doch bis zu den Erscheinungen der ziigellosesten Narrheit, ja, 
Raserei.—Sogar bedarf jeder allezeit eines gewissen Quantums Sorge, oder 
Schmerz, oder Not, wie das Schiff des Ballasts, urn fest und gerade zu gehn. 

Arbeit, Plage, Miihe und Not ist allerdings, ihr ganzes Leben hindurch, das Los 
fast alle'r Menschen. Aber, wenn alle Wiinsche, kaum entstanden, auch schon 
erfullt waren; womit sollte dann das menschliche Leben ausgefiillt, womit die 
Zeit zugebracht werden? Man versetze dies Geschlecht in ein Schlaraffenland , 
wo alles von selbst wiichse und die Tauben gebraten herumflogen, auch jeder 
seine Heissgeliebte alsbald fands, und ohne Schwierigkeit erhielte.—Da werden 


Reason and Morality 267 

and sense of life. With the greater number of Russian writers, 
he regards suffering as an ennobling factor, as a redemption from 
sordidness, and in this he approaches Nietzsche more closely 
than he does Schopenhauer, whose remarks on the subject are 
somewhat sneering. Nietzsche, who knew keen suffering, phys¬ 
ical as well as mental, from personal experience, considered 
the discipline of suffering responsible for “all the elevations of 
humanity.” 10 Andreyev puts Savva, the rational Nihilist, face 
to face with Yeremy, a wretched pilgrim nicknamed “King 
Herod” for having accidentally killed his own child. Eaten by 
remorse, the father burns his guilty hand, puts heavy chains on 
his body, and becomes a perpetual wanderer from monastery 
to monastery, fasting, tormenting himself, not for a moment 
forgetting his sorrow. So enormous does his woe appear to 
him that the whole world shrinks in his eyes to a “poppy seed,” 
and cannot contain it. He does not belong to Nietzsche’s 
“higher men,” but is one of Andreyev’s Averages—a peasant, 
a believer in Christ, in the Russian Christ humanized through 
His suffering. Far from inviting pity and sympathy, Yeremy 
takes great pride in possessing his precious burden, which has 
taught him the “truth,” and which he would not exchange for 
“all the kingdoms of the earth,” even if God Himself should 
offer them to him in exchange for his “sweet sorrow.” De¬ 
prived of his woe, Yeremy would sink to the level of a normal 
peasant, while as its possessor he approaches the stage of which 
the aristocrat Nietzsche speaks, upon his temporary recovery 
from acute, prolonged pain: “Ich zweifle, ob ein solcher 
Schmerz ‘verbessert’—; aber ich weiss, dass es uns vertieft ” 11 
Suffering makes one deeper—and richer. Nothing can buy 
Yeremy’s treasure—surely not Savva’s reason—and should his 
son be resurrected he would probably kill him once more, as 
one of his listeners remarks. Man needs, however irrationally, 
faith and suffering to fill his life and to lend it meaning. 

die Menschen zum Teil von Langerweile sterben, oder sich aufhangen, zum Teil 
aber einander bekreigen, wiirgen und morden, und so sich mehr Leiden verursachen, 
als jetzt die Natur ihnen auflegt.—Also fur ein solches Geschlecht passt kein anderer 
Schauplatz, kein anderes Dasein.”— Paregra, etc., No. 152, p. 268 ( fVerke—lV ). 

10 Jenseits von Gut und Bose, No. 225, pp. 179-181 {Werke — VIII). 

11 Die frohliche Wissenschaft: Vorrede, 3, pp. 34, 35 {IV erke— VI), 


268 Leonid Andreyev 

Thus our reason, though it may wreck the faith of individual 
persons, proves helpless in face of mass faith, the instinctive, 
elemental medium for self-protection. But in describing the 
manifestations of blind faith as a weapon of self-defense in the 
hands of the masses shrinking before freedom and responsibility 
(the believers in Life of Vasily Fiveysky, the people in Thus 
It Was, the pilgrims in Savva), Andreyev is not so resentful as 
when he attacks beliefs that savor of the head, of the intellect, 
whether it be in religion or in philosophy or in social conduct. 
While pitying blind faith (recall the moving words of Lipa, 
anent the light of Golgotha for humanity, in Savva), he hates 
rationalizing faith, all attempts to base beliefs on logic, to ex¬ 
plain everything through reason. 

Andreyev has suggested, in Darkness, the absurdity to which 
one may arrive in the effort to base one’s moral conduct on 
logical reasoning. The ascetic revolutionist, “convinced” by 
the harlot that he has no right to be good as long as there are 
bad persons like herself, determines to renounce his moral privi¬ 
leges and to join the children of darkness, whose father is Tsar 
Hunger. Whether the author has intended it or not, he leads 
one to detect an intrinsic fallacy in the reasoning of the revolu¬ 
tionist, namely, in his very determination to sacrifice his moral 
superiority in the name of absolute equality, he continues to be 
hopelessly good, hence a privileged aristocrat, ethically speak¬ 
ing. More outspoken is Andreyev in Judas Iscariot and the 
Others. Here he gives free vent to his contempt for dogmatic 
“oughts,” for those persons whose life is simplified to a series 
of definite duties, whose conduct is dictated not by the heart but 
by the head, in the sense in which Schopenhauer uses these 
words. 12 It appears that the author even doubts the honesty 

12 “Mit vollem Recht ist das Herz, dieses primum mobile des tierischen Lebens, 
zum Symbol, ja zum Synonym des Willens, als des Urkerns unserer Erscheinung, 
gewahlt worden und bezeichnet diesen, im Gegensatz des Intellekts, der mit dem 
Kopf geradezu identisch ist. Alles, was im weitesten Sinne, Sache des Willens 
ist, wie Wunsch, Leidenschaft, Freude, Schmerz, Giite, Bosheit, auch was man 
unter ‘Gemiith’ zu verstehen pflegt, und was Homer durch <t>CKov -firop ausdriickt, 
wird dem Herzen beigelegt . . . Hingegen bezeichnet der Kopf alles, was Sache 
der Enkenntniss ist . . . Herz und Kopt bezeichnet den ganzen Menschen. Aber 
der Kopf ist stets das Zweite, das Abgeleitete; denn er ist nicht das Zentrum, 


Reason and Morality 269 

of conviction in those who act according to dogmatic duty, sus¬ 
pecting that they use their fixed moral code as a screen for the 
concealment of their impulses and motives. Thus he makes us 
feel his dislike for John, the beloved disciple of Christ, mainly 
because he is so definitely certain of the infallibility of his ethical 
standard. It is about such as John that Andreyev has Judas 
say: 

They are called “good” who know how to hide their deeds and thoughts. 
But should you take hold of one of these worthies, embrace him, pet 
him, and draw him out, there will ooze from him, like pus from a boil 
that has been pricked, all sorts of evil, nastiness and falsehood. 13 

Judas exaggerates, with his customary malice. But one is 
inclined to agree that there can be no spontaneous truth in a 
life led not in accordance with one’s instinctive preferences and 
choices, but rather on the basis of an established code, a double¬ 
entry bookkeeping system, where the good and the bad are 
designated and labeled in advance and once for all. In such a 
life one may expect contradictions between the “oughts” dic¬ 
tated by one’s intellect and the “oughts” emanating from one’s 
whole Self or Will, one may foresee collisions between the head 
and the heart. We have seen how the revolutionist, in Dark¬ 
ness, violates his Will—that is, the whole system of his inclina¬ 
tions, tastes, and desires—in favor of an alleged logical dogma. 
In Judas Iscariot the faithful disciples of Christ justify their 
nonresistance to the capture and execution of the Master, by 
their obedience to His command, by the predestination of the 
great sacrifice, by the fact that were they to perish in the un¬ 
equal struggle with the Roman soldiers, there would be no one 
to preach the Gospel. Their argument sounds correct and 
reasonable. Yet more convincing by far appears the harangue 
of Judas, the traitor, when he calls on the disciples on the mor¬ 
row of the crucifixion, and finds them sane and sound, quietly 
sorrowing, after having normally slept and eaten. He ques- 

sondern die hochste Effloressenz des Leibes .”—Die Welt, etc. — II, Chapter 19, p. 
246 ( Werke — II). 

is Works — VII, p. 160. 


270 Leonid Andreyev 


tions their love for Christ, since those who love act spontane¬ 
ously, before reasoning out the logicalness of their action. If 
your son were drowning, would you go into the city and inquire 
of the passers-by: ‘What must I do? My son is drowning!’ 
No, you would rather throw yourself into the water and drown 
with him. One who loved would!” Unreserved love should 
have prompted them to risk their bodies and souls, to fall upon 
the Roman soldiers, to die in the hopeless battle, and even to 
earn the torments of hell by disobeying the command of their 
Master. “Why are you alive, when He is dead? Why do 
your feet walk, why does your tongue talk trash, why do your 
eyes blink, when He is dead, motionless, speechless? How do 
your cheeks dare to be red, John, when His are pale? How 
can you dare to shout, Peter, when He is silent?” 14 

Historically, one may object, the conduct of the Apostles has 
proved to be beneficial for the spread of the Gospel. One may 
further disparage Judas’s vehemence, by observing that it takes 
more courage to control one’s passions, to check one’s impulses, 
to refrain from reflex action, than to be “just human.” One 
may praise the iron discipline of the “Others” in their setting 
out upon the mission of practising, and not only preaching, the 
doctrine of nonresistance to evil by evil. But Andreyev is not 


14 ibid., pp. 240, 242. There is a curious analogy between Judas’s judgment of 
the “good” and Andreyev’s view of the Russian nonresisting “democrats,” an 
analogy retrospectively observed by the author himself. 

When Judas negotiates with the high priest about the betrayal of Jesus, Annas 
asks him whether the disciples may not raise a rebellion when their Master is 
taken from them. 

“Judas laughed long and maliciously: ‘Who, they? Those cowardly dogs, 
who run if a man but stoop to pick up a stone. They, indeed! 

“ ‘Are they really so bad ? . . .’ 

“ ‘But surely it is not the bad who flee from the good ; is it not rather the 
good who flee from the bad? Ha! They are good, and therefore they will flee. 
They are good, and therefore they will hide themselves. They are good, and 
therefore they will appear only in time to bury Jesus. They will lay Him in the 
tomb themselves; you need only execute Him.’ 

“‘But surely they love Him? You said so yourself.’ 

“‘Men always love their teacher, but better dead than alive. . . .* ” (p. 193 *) 

On the margin of this page in his personal copy of Judas, Andreyev has in¬ 
scribed in pencil: “The betrayal of October 26 [November 9], 1917.” On this 
date the Bolsheviki overthrew the provisional government, meeting with no serious 
resistance, since Kerensky had been abandoned by all the “good” patriots. (See 
supra , p. 151 f- 


Reason and Morality 271 

concerned here with the drama of the Golgotha per se. He 
utilizes certain situations for the illustration of the dogmatic 
fallacy, and he does not hesitate about deviating from the tra¬ 
ditional version, and interpretation of, the story. He makes 
the disciples appear beaten by Judas’s argument, implying their 
admission that the “ought” advocated by Judas corresponds 
with their true Selves, with their Wills, rather than the dog¬ 
matic “ought” presented by John. 

It is clear that Andreyev denies the Head the power to dom¬ 
inate or even to explain life. Reason, a thing of the head, is 
unable to coexist with faith, and it is bound to devour it, as 
Schopenhauer suggests, or to render it soulless, as Andreyev 
makes it appear in the Apostles. Still less does he allow reason 
the ability to reign supreme, “unalloyed.” The tragedy of Dr. 
Kerzhentsev, in Thought, consists in his betrayal by his reason, 
which has failed even in explaining himself to himself. Savva, 
who sets out with the apparently simple task of clearing the 
minds of his fellow men by inoculating them with reason, is 
crushed by the avalanche of unreasoning faith, Yet those who 
perish because of their faith in reason acquire a redeeming fea¬ 
ture in their martyrdom. Utterly obnoxious, on the other 
hand, appear the “successful” ones, those who thrive on reason, 
who succumb to it, and willingly become its slaves, as is the case 
of the Prisoner, the author of My Memoirs . Here we see rea¬ 
son reach the lowest grade of corruption, of mental prostitution, 
of adaptability. Andreyev presents in the writer of the 
Memoirs the type he hates most, the dogmatist of common 
sense, the justifier of life at any cost, the champion of the doc¬ 
trine that all is well on earth and in heaven. In a language 
unctious and oily, ingratiating yet full of conceit, the writer 
creeps into your soul with his ambiguous confessions. Ambigu¬ 
ous, because their author serves logic, not truth. He cleverly 
manipulates his logical deductions and seductions, until you are 
bewildered and unable to tell whether or not the writer has 
actually committed the crime for which he is imprisoned. 

It so happened [he insinuates] that in the game of circumstances the 


272 Leonid Andreyev 

truth concerning my actions, which I alone knew, had assumed all the 
features of an infamous and shameless lie. However strange it may seem 
to my indulgent and serious reader, not through truth but only through 
falsehood could I establish and affirm the truth of my innocence. 15 

Convicted as a parricide and fratricide, he begins to serve his 
life term in prison, gradually adapts himself to the regime, and 
turns into its apologist. The warden appreciates his loyalty, 
and enlists his cooperation in improving prison regulations, in 
making the life of the prisoners safe, sane and immune from 
escape. The writer modestly admits his authorship of the 
peephole in cell doors, the invention which has placed the pris¬ 
oner under the incessant observation of his jailer. As he grows 
old, he becomes more and more enamored of his prison, and 
begins to preach his views to audiences especially invited by the 
warden. His doctrine is compressed in the Formula of the 
Iron Grate, which he discovers while observing the blue sky 
outlined through his cell window: 

“Why is the sky so beautiful through these bars?” I reflected , . . “Is 
not this the effect of the aesthetic law of contrasts, according to which 
azure stands out prominently beside black? Or is it not, perhaps, a 
manifestation of some higher law, according to which the infinite may be 
conceived by the human mind only when it is brought within certain 
boundaries, for instance, when it is enclosed within a square?” 

When I recalled that at the sight of a wide-open window, which was 
not protected by bars, or of the sky, I had usually experienced a desire 
to fly, which was painful because of its uselessness and absurdity—I sud¬ 
denly began to experience a feeling of tenderness for the bars; tender 
gratitude, even love. . . , 16 

By way of sophistry, or plausible logic, the old man tries to 
convince his readers and hearers that a prison has a salutary 
effect on man’s soul. Man is restless and vainly seeking. His 
sufferings and misfortunes arrive chiefly as a result of excessive 

15 Works— Fill, p. II 6. In his article on the Jewish question, Andreyev again 
differentiates between truth and logic, no longer in the form of fiction. Cf., e. g., 
the sentence: “Of course, logic was on my side, but a certain dim truth stood 
behind him.”— The Shield (She hit ), p. 4. Moscow, 1916, 3rd edition. 

16 ^id, pp. 133, 134 - 


273 


Reason and Morality 

freedom. His soul demands fetters. The Iron Grate is a 
“simple, sober, honest, mathematical formula” based on the 
solid foundations of “strictly logical reasoning,” a scheme con¬ 
taining all universal laws “which do away with chaos, substitut¬ 
ing in its place strict, iron, inviolable order.” Let all sufferers 
and all those who are restless of spirit embrace the bars of the 
Iron Grate, and they will find peace for their souls and healing 
for their ailments. The preacher has an opportunity for prov¬ 
ing the strength of his convictions, when upon being granted 
pardon for his loyal conduct, and released, he finds freedom 
too hazardous and disquieting an element. He has a strong 
cell constructed, where he incarcerates himself, and hires an 
experienced jailer to guard him day and night, to watch him 
through the peephole, and to prevent him from transgressing 
any of the strict regulations drawn up by himself after the 
model of his former happy abode. 

That this moralist is a caricature of Tolstoy, as it has been 
assumed in Russia, is not too far-fetched a conjecture. There 
are some details in the Memoirs which carry one’s thoughts to 
Yasnaya Polyana. The portrait of the patriarchal prisoner 
is one of these details. In the lower part of his face kindness, 
authoritativeness, and calm dignity are harmoniously blended. 
But the eyes have a “fixed immobile gaze; madness glimmering 
somewhere in their depth; the painful eloquence of a deep and 
infinitely lonely soul.” Tolstoy’s “Aye”-saying to the God- 
ruled world, his asceticism in later years, his advocacy of sup¬ 
pressing one’s natural instincts—may have served Andreyev as 
the basic elements for the Iron Grate Formula. Again, Tol¬ 
stoy’s effort to rationalize faith invites comparison with the 
abuser of logic in My Memoirs. Tolstoy had no patience with 
mystics and with all those who place faith outside, or even 
above, reason. “Man,” he wrote, “has been given directly 
from God only one instrument for knowing himself and his 
relation to the world—there is no other—and this instrument 
is reason . . . Without reason man cannot even believe . . . 
If the meaning of man’s life does not appear clear to him, then 
this proves not that reason is unfit for clarifying this meaning, 


274 Leonid Andreyev 

but only this, that too much of the irrational has been accepted 
on faith, and one should cast aside whatever is not confirmed 
by reason.” 17 

The philosopher of adaptability describes in his Memoirs the 
confidence with which the warden has revealed to him all the 
details concerning the prison, its architecture, its rules and regu¬ 
lations. Translated, this means that the prison—our life—is 
not unknowable. The Warden—God—allows us to see, to un¬ 
derstand everything. Reason is the basis of our faith and 
loyalty. But is absolutely everything open to the inspection of 
reason? 

To my request for a precise plan of the prison, the warden answered 
with a polite refusal. 18 

This break in the perfect harmony of reason and faith does 
not, however, provoke a rebellion in the warden’s loyal prisoner. 
His sense of adaptability prompts him to retreat quietly^ when¬ 
ever some wall blocks his facile logic. 19 For such as he a wall 
has something soothing, calming, morally absolving and final, 
in the words of the arch-enemy of rationalism, Dostoyevsky. 20 
Such rationalistic jugglers are concerned not about finding truth, 
at the probable risk of smashing their logical structure; rather 
are they in search of some sort of pliable truth that may be bent 
and molded and conveniently squeezed into ready frames and 
formulas. Peace and “happiness” at any price, is the pottage of 
lentils for which these Realpolitiker in morals are ready to sell 
their birthright to free investigation and endless questioning. 
And do not such artful dodgers compose the bulk of our contem¬ 
porary shepherds and priests of omnipotent Common Sense? 

17 From a letter, dated November 26, 1894, reproduced by I. Teneromo in his 
Reminiscences about L. N. Tolstoy, and His Letters (Vospominaniya 0 L. N. Tol- 
stom i ye<vo pisma), pp. 146, 147, 149, 15° (Petrograd, ?). 

is Works—VIII, p. 136. ... 

19 Tolstoy also had to admit the shortcomings of reason in explaining certain 
questions. He used the following metaphor: “Your reason is like an opera-glass, 
you may turn it up to a certain point, but thereafter things look wrong. So it is 
with questions about life, and its purposes. . . .”—Quoted in History of Russian 
Literature in the 19th Century ( lstoria russkoy literatury XIX <veka) t v. V, pp. 
380, 381. Moscow, 1910. 

20 Notes from Underground — I: III, p. 440. Berlin, 1922. 


275 


Reason and Morality 

There is no gainsaying the peace that the Memorist’s cell may 
bring to the weary and restless. The closer the cell, the less 
of life and movement penetrates this refuge—the greater the 
peace, the deeper the calm, the nearer is death. This bliss will 
hardly tempt a free, self-respecting person. The seeker, the 
one thirsty for knowledge, will prefer perpetual war to deaden¬ 
ing peace, will greet life-intensifying storm rather than stifling 
calm, and will regard “the overhanging clouds of trouble as 
an udder from which he shall draw milk for his refreshment,” 
in the expression of Nietzsche . 21 Disenchanted in his quest, 
finding the goal unattainable, the honest prober will admit his 
defeat, will perhaps bow his head before the impossibility of 
achieving absolute knowledge, but he will scorn patched-up 
compromises and sweetened nostrums of quack logicians. 
Rather will he hail suffering. “Suffering—but this is the sole 
cause of consciousness,” cries Dostoyevsky , 22 in whose works 
only those who suffer lead an intense, self-justifying life. Suf¬ 
fering does not prevent the free man from striving forward. 
Even though he cannot break the wall of his cell, the man who 
is above the domesticated animal will go on smashing his head 
and bruising his breast against the iron grate, if only in pro¬ 
test, if only in order to proclaim through his suffering his refusal 
to acquiesce in commonplace contentment. 

Andreyev does not believe in the ability of man to acquire 
absolute knowledge, either about himself or about life and the 
world outside of himself. Not one of his fervent seekers 
achieves his aim. Intellect is a tool and plaything of the will, 
of the self, and is bound to be defeated in its presumptuous 

21 “So hast du noch nicht gelernt, dass kein Honig siisser als der der Erkennt- 
niss ist, und dass die hangenden Wolken der Trubsal dir noch zum Euter dienen 
miissen, aus dem du die Milch zu deiner Labung melken wirst.”— Menschliches 
Allzumenschliches — I, No. 292, p. 267 ( fVerke — III). 

It is in this sense that Nietzsche preaches “war” as against “peace,” in his 
much-abused and misrepresented aphorisms, such as these: “Euren Feind sollt 
ihr suchen, euren Krieg sollt ihr fuhren. . . . Ihr sollt den Frieden lieben als 
Mittel zu neuen Kriegen. Und den kurzen Frieden mehr als den langen. . . . 
Ihr sagt, die gute Sache sei es, die sogar den Krieg heilige? Ich sage euch: der 
gute Krieg ist es, der jede Sache heiligt.”— Also sprach Zarathustra: “Vom 
Krieg und Kriegsvolke,” p. 67 {W erke — VII). 

22 Notes from Underground—I: IX, p. 467. 


276 Leonid Andreyev 

attempt to interpret the cause and source of all. But the at¬ 
tempt in itself, however futile, has an intense charm for An¬ 
dreyev, who returns to this theme time and again. It is evident 
from the preceding discussion that intellect, reason, is obnoxious 
and hateful to Andreyev only when it pretends to have arrived 
at a definite solution of all questions, when it dictates precise 
Thou shalt’s and Thou shalt not’s. In other words, he is op¬ 
posed to dogmatic reason. But the quest in itself is dear to his 
heart, and we recognize Andreyev himself in his passionate, 
often Quixotic, hunters after absolute knowledge and perfect 
understanding of the universe and its laws. 

This restless intellect, incessantly questioning, ever searching 
and probing, is presented by Andreyev with particular force in 
his story, Judas Iscariot and the Others, and in his play, Anath¬ 
ema. As can be seen from the very title of the story, the 
author places Judas above the “Others.” Indeed, he succeeds 
in convincing us that the traitor, who is ugly, who lies, steals, 
and betrays, is yet far higher and bigger intellectually than the 
twelve faithful disciples. In argument he easily gets the best 
of the lovable but limited Peter and the dogmatic, almost 
academic, John, let alone the simple Thomas who “looked so 
straight with his bright, transparent eyes, through which, as 
through a pane of Phoenician glass, was visible a wall behind, 
with a dismal ass tied to it.” We have seen how Judas forces 
the Apostles to feel the superficiality of their dutifulness, when 
after the crucifixion he comes to deride and reproach them for 
their nonresistance policy during the perpetration of the great¬ 
est crime on earth. What raises Judas above the ordinary good 
or bad is the perpetual restlessness of his spirit, his faculty of 
merciless analysis, of seeing far and deep beyond appearances. 
There is a baffling duality about his thoughts and actions, even 
about his external features—the nape of his neck split by a 
sword cut, and one side of his face distorted by a blind, wide- 
open, never-blinking eye. Dual, too, appears his attitude to¬ 
ward Christ, who remains significantly silent throughout the 
story. Judas loves his Master with the love of an hysterical 
mother for her doomed child. Outside the guardhouse where 


277 


Reason and Morality 

Jesus, betrayed by him, is being scourged and abused by the 
Roman soldiers, crouches Judas, the traitor, and suffers physical 
pain and mental anguish from each blow and insult administered 
to his victim. Yet he fears Him, is uneasy in His presence, 
and deliberately delivers Him into the hands of His enemies. 
Judas is, naturally, misunderstood, is lonely and wretched. He 
is consumed by a passion, an intellectual passion, for analyzing, 
dissecting, revealing and demonstrating truth—that is, what 
appears as mathematical truth to the “unalloyed” reason 23 of 
Judas. No defect, no flaw, no allusion, no veil, no falsehood, 
can escape his one, evil-looking, evil-seeing eye. He is the 
skeptic incarnate. He doubts everything and everybody. The 
disciples arouse in him contempt and annoyance, the masses of 
humanity do not deserve the love and redemption bestowed on 
them by Jesus. One is led to believe—in Andreyev’s later 
works one cannot get along without hypothetic conjectures— 
that Judas sets out on a mad adventure to prove the justness of 
his skepticism. He will test the priests, the enemies of Him 
who is transvaluing their old values. Do they appreciate the 
significance of their adversary? He will test the intelligence 
and the sense of the populace. Will they or will they not revolt 
against the betrayal and crucifixion of their greatest treasure, 
their Savior? He will test the devotion and love of the disci¬ 
ples. Will they endure the loss of their Master, who has talked 
with them, and has shared their bread and lodging, and has cast 
pearls before them? He will test God, heaven, the sun, the 
earth. Will they allow the mad catastrophe to take place? In 
carrying out his grotesque analysis, Judas often seems to hope 
against hope that he may be proved wrong. To the very last 
minute of the Golgotha tragedy he craves for a miracle, for a 

23 This expression is used here in the sense of Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche, who 
allow for a small admixture of reason in all things. Dostoyevsky asserts that 
man must “alloy all positive rationality with the pernicious element of the fan¬ 
tastic. Precisely his fantastic dreams, his most trivial folly, will he wish to re¬ 
tain, solely in order to assert for himself that men are still men, and not keys in 
a keyboard . . .” Notes from Underground—I: VIII, p. 462. Zarathustra, on the 
other hand, permits “ein msenig Vernunft zwar, ein Same der Weisheit zerstreut 
von Stern zu Stern,—dieser Sauerteig ist alien Dingen eingemischt: um der Narr- 
heit willen ist Weisheit alien Dingen eingemischt \”—Also sprach Zarathustra: 
“Vor Sonnen-Aufgang,” p. 243. 


278 Leonid Andreyev 

refutation of his misanthropic theory, for the salvation of Him 
whom he loves and fears. But his skepticism wins in the grue¬ 
some test The priests set the price of Jesus at thirty pieces 
of silver. The populace, always cruel and blood-thirsty, 24 ever 
eager to witness crime, at all times craving for either bread or 
shows, and invariably hostile to, and suspicious of, the great 
and the original, until after they are dead, clamor for the cruci¬ 
fixion of their noblest Friend. The disciples prove dogmatically 
obedient and reasonable: they do not break down under the 
calamity, they do not go mad, or attack the captors of their 
Master in an uneven battle. Jesus is crucified, and God does 
not smash the savage world into fragments, neither does the 
earth quake and spit out its murderous inhabitants. “Nothing 
has happened. Nothing has changed.” 25 

Judas has proved right, terribly right. He has proved his 
truth. But is it the truth? Does his being “right” signify 
that Christ, his antipode, is “wrong”? Andreyev does not an¬ 
swer in the story about Judas, but he suggests an answer in his 
play, Anathema. Here we may discern variations on old 
themes. Someone-Guarding-the-Gates reminds us of Someone- 
in-Gray, while Anathema resembles none other but Judas. 
Again, David Leiser is a popular edition of Jesus, an approach¬ 
able, speaking Jesus. But the variations are of a considerable 
degree. Someone-in-Gray delivers long monologues on the Life 
of Man, voicing the negative side of Schopenhauer’s outlook 
upon the world. The words of Someone-Guarding-the-Gates 
are few, but they are pregnant with ethical significance, as we 
shall see presently. Then, too, Anathema is a departure from 
Judas in that he, the accursed one, is not so much a skeptic, a 
doubter, as he is a passionate fanatic of knowledge, yearning 
for the unveiling of all mysteries, aspiring for limitless power— 
through knowledge: 

24 Cf. Nietzsche: “Der Mensch namlich ist das grausamste Tier. Bei Trauer- 
spielen, Stierkampfen und Kreuzigungen ist es ihm bisher am wohlsten geworden 
auf Erden; und als er sich die Holle erfand, siehe, da war das sein 
Himmel auf Erden .”—Also sprach Zarathustra: “Der Genesende,” 2, p. 318 
(JVerke—VU). 

25 Scene 7 of Anathema, p. 165 (Wild Rose edition). Petrograd, 1909. 


Reason and Morality 279 

And I shall know, and become a God, become a God, become a God! 26 

The Guardian-of-the-Gates frankly admits that what Anath¬ 
ema is seeking after is unknowable and unnamable. But the 
searching spirit never retreats before a wall, as does the in¬ 
ventor of the Iron Gate Formula. Anathema cannot acquiesce 
in accepting life with closed eyes, unable to explain its course, 
its why and wherefore. For this rebelliousness of spirit he has 
been banished and anathematized. Yet time and again he 
creeps up to the Gates, in his unquenchable thirst for knowl¬ 
edge, his efforts ever breaking at the immovable will of the 
Guardian. In impotent rage Anathema threatens to raise the 
earth in revolt against heaven, against the Guardian of the iron 
Gates, behind which dwells the “Beginning of every being, the 
Great Reason of the universe.” Like Judas, he is going to 
prove the cruelty, absurdity, ugliness, painfulness, and injustice 
of earthly life, so that the outraged universal sensibility will 
storm the Gates, demanding the revelation of the Mystery rul¬ 
ing the world in such dark inexplicable ways. 

Anathema’s “test” is in its essence similar to the one of Judas. 
He reenacts the drama of Christ on a miniature scale, in the 
form of a conventionalized allegory. Anathema, disguised as 
a lawyer, Nullius, comes to a small town stricken with poverty 
and filth, and announces to a sickly dreamy Jew, David Leiser, 
that he is heir to two million dollars left for him by his brother 
who has died in America. At first the pious dreamer refuses to 
accept the gift, which he feels to come from an evil source. But 
Anathema (Small, Sufficient Reason) proves to David how 
much good can be accomplished through his money. David 
then issues a call to all the needy, to come and share in the 
blessing that has been bestowed on him. Human misery begins 
to flow toward David. To the long-awaited call are drawn all 
unfortunates, all afflicted, cripples, blind, bereaved, all who have 
some sorrow or want, expecting miracles, demanding miracles. 
Andreyev evidently refers to the appeal which Christianity bears 
for all who are weak and miserable rather than for the strong 


26 Ibid, p. 15. 


28 o Leonid Andreyev 

and joyous ones of humanity. One recalls the words of St. 
Paul concerning those invited to be saved: 

... not many wise after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble are 
called: but God chose the foolish things of the world, that he might put 
to shame them that are wise; and God chose the weak things of the world, 
that he might put to shame the things that are strong; and the base things 
of the world, and the things that are despised did God choose, yes and the 
things that are not, that he might bring to nought the things that are. 
that no flesh should glory before God. 27 

The meek in spirit and weak in body swarm along the path 
leading to the luring will-o’-the-wisp. A bitter reproach Is 
heard in the words of David’s beautiful daughter, Rosa: “I 
have heard you call everybody. . . . But did you call the beau¬ 
tiful?” and scornfully she leaves the Mecca of the ugly. There 
remain only life’s stepchildren, life’s outcasts, those who are 
doomed to perish, moribund mankind. 28 But generous David 
finds himself unable to meet the ever-growing requests and de¬ 
mands. His love, his kindness, his sympathy cannot still the 
hunger, or heal the sick, or make the blind see. As to his 
“capital,” his great American fortune, it is swiftly frittered 
away, and when divided among the applicants, amounts to one 
copeck per person—the net effect of Christian charity on misery 
and suffering! David grows despondent. Anathema drives 
into his tormented mind mathematically unanswerable questions, 
such as this: “Why love, when it is impotent?” His money, 

27 1 . Corinthians, i: 26-29. 

28 Georg Simmel quotes a little known passage from St. Francis, also affirming 
the predilection of Christianity for the base and lowly: “Du willst wissen, warum 
mir die Menschen nachfolgen? Weil es die Augen des Hochsten also gewollt 
haben. Da sie unter den Siindern keinen geringeren, keinen unzulanglicheren, 
keinen siindigeren Menschen gefunden haben als mich, so haben sie mich auser- 
wahlt, um das wunderbare Werk zu vollbringen, das Gott unternommen hat; 
mich hat er erwahlt, weil er keinen Niedrigeren finden konnte, weil er also 
Adel, Grosse, Kraft, Schonheit und Weisheit der Welt zuschanden machen 
wollte.”— Nietzsche und Schopenhauer , p. 200. . 

Nietzsche objects to Christianity mainly on this account—its being a religion 
of the weak, of the slaves, and its trying to preserve that “which should have 
perished.” See, e. g., Jenseits von Gut und Bose, No. 62 ( Werke — VIII, pp. 87- 
9 o), Wille zur Macht, Book Two—I (v. IX, pp. 107-195), Der Antichrist (v. X, 
PP- 359 - 456 ). 


28 i 


Reason and Morality 

his tears, his heart, cannot quench the insatiable human want. 
The disappointed mass becomes restive and threatening. They 
accuse David of having deceived and betrayed them, and stone 
him to death. 

Anathema has won on all points. But no revolt takes place 
as a protest against the crime perpetrated. As with Judas after 
the Crucifixion, “nothing has happened. Nothing has changed. 
As before, the earth is weighed down by iron gates, closed from 
time immemorial, behind which dwells in silence and mystery 
the Beginning of every being, the Great Reason of the universe. 
And as silent and gravely motionless is Someone-Guarding-the- 
Gates. . . .” Anathema comes to demand an exact answer. 
He has just been instrumental in demonstrating beyond doubt 
the reign of stupid injustice on earth, and as a victor he is en¬ 
titled to the spoils—the knowledge of “the name ... the 
name of him who has ruined David and thousands of men.” 
He rages against the immutability of the Guardian, and plain¬ 
tively enumerates the achievements of his “test”: Has he not 
shown the powerlessness of love, in David, stoned to death by 
those for whom he gave his soul? Has he not proved the evil 
which love and altruism may cause? For not only has David 
failed to help the sufferers, but in his name people are commit¬ 
ting violence and mutual slaughter, waging persecution and war. 
The Guardian grants Anathema’s claim: 

Yes, David has done that which thou sayest; and the people have done 
that of which thou accusest them. And the numbers do not lie, and the 
scales are correct, and every measure is what it is. 29 

At this answer Anathema feels triumphant. For he is Suffi¬ 
cient, Small Reason, hence “immortal in numbers.” He is 
strong in mathematics and in logic, he can prove everything—ex¬ 
cept the mystery of life and its governing forces. His symmet¬ 
rical mind requires exact figures, sharp outlines, clear definitions, 
fixed quantities, and he refuses to believe in the words of the 
Guardian that what he craves to know “is not measured with 
a measure, and is not calculated in numbers, and is not weighed! 


20 Scene 7, p. 168, 


2 8 2 Leonid Andreyev 

on scales.” At the very outset of his quest, Anathema is 
warned by the Guardian that the mystery of truth and love is 
above and beyond “proofs,” that in the sight of Great Reason 
nothing is definite, nothing is absolute: 

There is no name for that which thou askest, Anathema. There is no 
number by which to count, no measure by which to measure, no scale by 
which to weigh that which thou askest, Anathema. Whoever hath said 
the word, Love—hath lied. Whoever hath said the word, Reason-hath 
lied. And even he who hath uttered the word, God—hath lied an ut- 
most and terrible lie. For there is no number, no measure, no scale, no 
name for that which thou askest, Anathema . 30 

Andreyev thus asserts the illusoriness of attaining absolute 
knowledge by means of our limited intellect. But though 
Anathema is defeated, he is not subdued. In his refusal to sub¬ 
mit to the impregnable wall, he rises above the calculating logic 
of Small Reason, the logic of adaptability, and voices the in¬ 
stinct of all searching minds, the longing for certainty (dass 
Verlangen nach Gewissheit), which, in the words of Nietzsche, 
separates higher from lower men. For Nietzsche, not to ques¬ 
tion perpetually while living amidst uncertainty and multiplicity, 
is contemptible . 31 And Anathema is the spirit of interminable 
search, and will live as long as there remain mysteries in life— 
that is, eternally. 

The Guardian, besides the idea of the unknowability of abso¬ 
lutes, suggests yet another motive. He proclaims after the 
murder of David that 

David hath attained immortality, and he liveth forever in the deathlessness 
of fire. David hath attained immortality, and he liveth forever in the 
deathlessness of light, which is life . 32 

David’s sufferings and errors, so mathematically proved by 

30 Scene i, p. 19. 

31 “Aber inmitten dieser rerum concordia discors und den ganzen wondervollen 
Ungewissheit and Vieldeutigkeit des Daseins stehen und nicht fragen, nicht zittern 
vor Begierde und Lust des Fragens ... Das ist es was ich als ver'dchthch emp- 
fi n de . . ."—Die frohliche JVissenschaft: 2. Das intellektuale Gewissen,” p. 64 
( Werke—VI ). 

33 Scene 7, p. 167. 


Reason and Morality 283 

Anathema to be futile, senseless, and misleading, are raised to a 
high tragedy of redemption through immortality, immortality in 
the sense in which Schopenhauer employs this word, namely the 
destruction of the illusion of individual consciousness and inde¬ 
pendence from the rest of the world . 33 This motive is sug¬ 
gested in several of Andreyev’s works, showing the influence of 
Schopenhauer’s ethical views, and pointing to the possibility of 
a positive ideal in life. 

Schopenhauer disparages sufficient reason which can grasp 
only phenomena within the limits of time, space, cause and ef¬ 
fect. He distinguishes immanent knowledge, obtained by means 
of sufficient reason, from transcendental knowledge of the true 
knowledge of things, of what he calls Platonic Ideas. As in¬ 
dividuals, subject to the Will, we can know only particular 
things; in order to be in a position to apprehend Ideas, we must 
divest ourself of our individual Ego, and regard ourself as a 
part of the whole, of the universal. But in order to attain this 
stage it is necessary for us to abnegate our Will, to rise above 
it, and thus become a subject rather than an object. Then we 
are capable of freeing ourself from petty and selfish motives 
and strivings—for these are dictated by our Will-to-live—and 
to perceive the unity of the world and of the species, of which 
we are an integral part. Once released from the principium 
individuationis, the Scholastic term used by Schopenhauer to de¬ 
note our egoistic notions arrived at by our sufficient reason, we 
may rise to the heights of sublime altruism. 

Wenn namlich vor den Augen eines Menschen jener Schleier der Maja, 
das principium individuationis, so sehr geliiftet ist, dass derselbe nicht mehr 
den egoistischen Unterschied zwischen seiner Person und der fremden 
macht, sondern an den Leiden der anderen Individuen so viel Anteil 
nimmt, wie an seinen eigenen, und dadurch nicht nur im hochsten Grade 
hilfreich ist, sondern sogar bereit, sein eigenes Individuum zu opfern, 

33 “Denn zwar ist jeder nur als Erscheinung verganglich, hingegen als Ding 
an sich zeitlos, also auch endlos; aber auch nur als Erscheinung ist er von den 
ubrigen Dingen der Welt verschieden, als Ding an sich ist er der Wille, der 
in allem erscheint, und der Tod hebt die Tauschung auf, die sein Bewusstsein 
von dem der Uebrigen trennt: dies ist die Fordauer.” Die Welt, etc. I, No. 54, 
P- 323* 


284 Leonid Andreyev 

sobald mehrere fremde dadurch zu retten sind; dann folgt von selbst, dass 
ein solcher Mensch, der in alien Wesen sich, sein innerstes und wahres 
Selbst erkennt, auch die endlosen Leiden alles Lebenden als die semen 
betrachten und so den Schmerz der ganzen Welt sich zueignen muss. 
Ihm ist kein Leiden mehr fremd. Alle Qualen anderer, die er sieht und 
so selten zu lindern vermag, alle Qualen, von denen er mittelbare Kunde 
hat, ja die er nur als moglich erkennt, wirken auf seinen Geist, wie seinen 
eigenen. Es ist nicht mehr das wechselnde Wohl und Wehe seiner Per¬ 
son, was er im auge hat, wie dies bei dem noch im Egoismus befangenen 
Menschen der Fall ist; sonder, da er das principium individuationis durch- 
schaut, liegt ihm alles gleich nahe. Er erkennt das Ganze, fasst das 
Wesen desselben auf, und findet es in einem steten Vergehen, nichtigen 
Streben, innerm Widerstreit und bestandigem Leiden begriffen, sieht, 
wohin er auch blickt, die leidende Menschheit und die leidende Tierheit, 
und eine hinschwindende Welt. Dieses alles aber liegt ihm jetzt so nahe, 
wie dem Egoisten nur seine eigene Person. Wie sollte er nun, bei solcher 
Erkenntniss der Welt, ebendieses Leben durch stete Willensakte bejahen 
und eben dadurch sich ihm immer fester verkniipfen, es immer fester an 
sich driicken? Wenn also der, welcher noch im principio individuationis, 
im Egoismus befangen ist, nur einzelne Dinge und ihr Verhaltniss zu 
seiner Person erkennt, und jener dann zu immer erneuerten Motiven 
seines Wollens werden; so wird hingegen jene beschriebene Erkenntniss 
des Ganzen, des Wesens der Dinge an sich, zum Quietiv alles und jedes 
Wollens. Der Wille wendet sich nunmehr vom Leben ab; ihm schaudert 
jetzt vor dessen Genussen, in denen er die Bejahung desselben erkennt. 
Der Mensch gelangt zum Zustande der freiwilligen Entsagung, der 
Resignation, der wahren Gelassenheit und ganzlichen Willenslosigkeit . 34 

Only a few can arrive at this stage—the saint, or the true 
artist. But Schopenhauer asserts that even the average per¬ 
son possesses in a certain degree altruistic feelings. In his es¬ 
says on ethics he speaks with great reverence of that psycholog¬ 
ical mystery—sympathy, common to the majority of men. 
This feeling is possible only when one identifies himself with 
others, when one can regard others’ pain, misfortune, sorrow, 
as one’s own, when one ceases to consider oneself in the aspect 
of the principium individuationis, when one approaches the 
maxim of the Vedas: Tat twam asi (This thou art). Schopen- 

**Die Welt, etc.—I, No. 68 , pp. 425, 426 ( Werke—I ). 


Reason and Morality 285 

hauer expresses his moral code in the precept, Neminem laede; 
imo omneSy quantum potes, juva. The first part of the precept, 
the negative, he calls justice. The second he regards as the 
positive virtue of charity, of sympathy, than which he knows 
no surer pledge for public well-being . 35 A mystery, he calls 
this universal feeling, because “reason cannot give a direct ac¬ 
count for it.” 36 Indeed, our virtues emanate from a peculiar 
source of knowledge—“namlich von einer unmittelbaren und in- 
tuitiven, die nicht wegzurasonnieren und nicht anzurasonieren 
ist, von einer Erkenntniss, die, eben weil sie nicht abstrakt ist, 
sich auch nicht mitteilen lasst, sondern jedem selbst aufgehen 
musst, die daher ihren eigentlichen adaquaten Austruck nicht in 
Worten findet, sondern ganz allein in Taten, im Handeln, im 
Lebenslauf des Menschen.” 37 

Schopenhauer’s lingering influence, admitted by Andreyev, is 
recognized without difficulty in those few works of Andreyev 
where he appears to be on the verge of uttering an ethical 
“Aye.” Opposing dogmatic precepts, he portrays on several 
occasions with evident sympathy such deeds of virtue as result 
from the heart rather than from the head, this virtue being the 
one Schopenhauer places above all others— caritas. While he 
lets his Judas and Anathema display all the infallible force of 
their reason, he makes them shrivel into nothingness in the face 
of the reason-defying sublimity of their “victims.” The great¬ 
ness of Christ’s conduct is most impressive through his silence. 
In Anathema, the Guardian declares David’s achievement of 
immortality. Indeed, David becomes aware of his immortality 
while still alive. He rises above things measurable and weigh- 
able, and in face of lonely death at the hands of those to whom 
he has given all, he perceives the immortal fire glowing in his 

35 “Denn grenzenloses Mitleid mit alien lebenden Wesen ist der festeste und 
sicherste Burge fur das sittliche Wohlverhalten und bedarf keiner Kasuistik. 
Wer davon erfullt ist, wird zuverlassig 'keinen verletzen, keinen beeintrachtigen, 
keinem Wehe tun, vielmehr mit jedem Nachsicht haben, jedem verzeihen, jedem 
helfen, so viel er vermag, und alle seine Handlungen werden das Geprage der 
Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe tragen .”—Grundlage der Moral, No. 19; 4, p. 380 
{Werke—lll). 

ss ibid., No. 18, p. 374. 

n D ie Welt —/, No. 66, p. 416 ( Werke— 1 ). 


286 Leonid Andreyev 

heart, the fire of love which destroys solitude and annihilates 
death. 

Am I alone [he exclaims in ecstasy] ? Am I a pauper and near 
death? . . . There is no death for man. What death is there? What 
is death? . . . Perhaps it does exist, I do not know—but I ... I am 
immortal . . . Oh, how terrible it is: I am immortal. Where is the 
end of the sky—I have lost it. Where is the end of man—I have lost 
it. I am immortal. Oh, the breast of man aches from immortality, and 
his joy burns him like fire. . . . 38 

First to relinquish your personal Will-to-live, with its self¬ 
ish little ambitions and aspirations—for success, for wealth, for 
fame {The Life of Man), then to merge with the rest of beings 
and things, to accept their sorrows as your sorrows, to love 
them as the whole, the universal—this is the way of immortal¬ 
ity, according to Andreyev, when he follows Schopenhauer. 
Anathema finds David a sick old pauper, utterly indifferent to 
life, free from all earthly desires. From this point there is only 
a step to immortality through embracing all mankind, all life, 
all the world, in whose perpetual course you are but an infinites¬ 
imal atom, the existence and the passing of which cannot have 
any isolated, individual importance. Thus Musya and Werner, 
in The Seven That Were Hanged , sentenced to death and in¬ 
wardly resigned to die, without regrets or longing for the con¬ 
tinuation of their personal existence, rise above the will, and 
gain immortality by fusing their consciousness with that of the 
cosmos. It is then that “the shores of life cannot contain their 

38 Scene 4, p. 108. 

The idea of losing your solitude when merging your individuality with the 
mass of humanity, was suggested by Andreyev as early as in The Life of Vasily 
Fiveysky. Speaking of the effect produced on Father Vasily by the tales of woe 
and misery related by his parishioners during their confessions, he wrote: “Here¬ 
tofore it was thus: There existed a puny earth, on which lived an enormous 
Father Vasily with his enormous grief and enormous doubts, with no other people 
living about, as it were. But now the earth had grown immense, boundless, and 
had become peopled with multitudes of men like Father Vasily. Each one o£ 
them lived in his own way, suffered, hoped, doubted in his own fashion. In their 
midst Father Vasily felt like a solitary tree in a field, around which had sud¬ 
denly grown up an endless and dense forest. His solitude was gone . . .”— 
Works—IV, pp. 164, 165. 


Reason and Morality 287 

love, broad as the sea.” It is then that Werner perceives the 
beauty of the spectacle of life and death, sparkling like two 
seas melting into one another at the horizon. Werner s rising 
above his ego enables him to regard the flaws of the human race 
with compassion and forgiveness, in the manner of the man of 
“sublime character” described by Schopenhauer: 

Ein soldier character wird demnach die Menschen rein objektiv be- 
trachten, nicht aber nach den Beziehungen, welche sie zu seinem Willen 
haben konnten: er wird z. B. ihre Fehler, sogar ihren Hass und ihre 
Ungerechtigkeit gegen ihn selbst, bemerken, ohne dadurch seinerseits zum 
Hass erregt zu werden . . . Denn er wird in seinem eigenen Lebenslauf 
und dessen Unfallen weniger sein individuelles, als das Los der Mensch- 
heit uberhaupt erblicken. . . . 39 

He who succeeds in throwing off “the veil of Maja,” and in 
placing his person properly in regard to the universe, will not 
fear death. In EIcuzut (or Lmzuvus} Andreyev powerfully 
depicts the paralyzing effect of death on human activity. 
Those who look into the eyes of the resurrected Lazarus, the 
man who spent three days and three nights in the grave, per¬ 
ceive the horror of the infinite, and lose all joy and ambition. 
The terrible knowledge lurking in the eyes of Lazarus kills the 
love in the lovers who dare look into them; it destroys the 
thought-impulse in the thinker; it cripples the sense of beauty in 
the artist. The divine Augustus confronts those eyes, and is 
also dragged to the verge of nothingness, but at the moment 
of apathetic despondency, when peering into the abyss of death, 
the emperor feels in his heart a spark flare up into a flame: 
his love for his people. The thought of others saves him from 
destruction, as the religion of altruism saved Tolstoy from sui¬ 
cide. Augustus comes back to life, “to find in its suffering and 
in its joys a shield against the darkness of the void and the 
horror of the Infinite.” According to Schopenhauer, to him 
who regards his own person as something apart from other per¬ 
sons, who regards the rest of the world as “not myself” ( Nicht - 
Ich), who exists therefore exclusively within his own self, death 

39 Die Welt — 1 , No. 39, pp. 242, 243 {Werke—l), 


288 Leonid Andreyev 

appears as the end of all reality, of the whole world. On the 
other hand, he who sees in his own existence a close link with 
the existence of other living beings, loses in his death only a 
small part of his existence, for he will be continued in all those 
in whom he has seen and loved his own existence. He looks 
upon death as “the blinking of an eye, which does not interrupt 
the vision,” 40 or as the setting of the sun, which does not sig 
nify the extinction of the sun , 41 or as upon a deep sleep . 42 
Andreyev uses Augustus, rather freely from the point of view 
of historical truth, as a symbol of an individual whose life is 
intertwined with the lives of others. Once Augustus realizes 
that his existence is of import only in so far as it is linked with 
that of others, he concludes further that with his disappearance 
there is not going to ensue a “void darkness,” but that the ses¬ 
sion will proceed. Life, objectively, is eternal. “That eve¬ 
ning,” the author tells us, “the divine Augustus partook of his 
meats and drinks with particular joy.” The horror he has en¬ 
visaged in the eyes of Lazarus will remain with him for the 
rest of his days—a “black shadow” dulling from time to time 
the brightness of his own eyes. Those eyes have disillusioned 
him forever concerning individual happiness or purposefulness. 
But with this knowledge has also come the consciousness of 
being a part of the cosmos, of living with others, through others 
and for others. Augustus rises above personal disenchant¬ 
ment, and determines to live and act for his people. Altruism, 
love and life for others, sounds strongly in this lugubrious story, 
and it sounds more or less faintly in The Seven That TVere 
Hanged, in Judas Iscariot, in Anathema. The author does not 
suggest that altruism can in any way alter conditions, transform 
life into something less silly and cruel and ugly, or bestow happi¬ 
ness. What one may infer is that since we are where we are, 
in this vale of tears, the only way that remains for us to follow 

Grundlage der Moral, No. 22, p. 412 ( Werke — III). 

41 “. . . wenn ein Mensch den Tod als seine Vernichtung furchtet, es nicht an- 
ders ist, als wenn man dacht, die Sonne konne am Abend klagen: ‘Wehe mir! 
Ich gehe unter in ewige Nacht.’ ”— Die Welt, etc., I, No. 54, p. 321 ( Werke — I). 

42 “Der tiefe Schlaf ist vom Tode . . . gar nicht verschieden. . . . Der Tod ist 
ein Schlaf, in welchem die Individualist vergessen wird: alles andere erwacht 
■meder, ©der vielmehr ist wach geblieben.”— Ibid., No. 54, p. 318, 


Reason and Morality 289 

is the noble way of unselfish love and sympathy. “A heroic 
life,” is what Schopenhauer prescribes for one who knows that 
happiness in life is impossible: 

Ein gluckliches Leben ist unmoglich: das Hochste, was der Mensch 
erlangen kann, ist ein heroischer Lebenslauf. Einen solchen fiihrt der, 
welcher, in irgendeiner Art und Angelegenheit, fur das alien irgendwie 
zugute Kommende, mit iibergrossen Schwierigkeiten kampft und am Ende 
siegt, dabei aber schlecht oder gar nicht belohnt wird. Dann bleibt er, 
am Schluss, wie der Prinz im Re corvo des Gozzi, versteinert, aber in 
edler Stellung und mit grossmiitiger Gebarde stehn. Sein Andenken 
bleibt und wird als das eines Her os gefeiert; sein fVille, durch Muhe und 
Arbeit, schlechten Erfolg und Undank der Welt, ein ganzes Leben hun- 
durch, mortifiziert, erlischt in der Nirvana. 43 

In suggesting such a positive ideal in life, Andreyev chooses 
the way of Schopenhauer, and, by implication, rejects that of 
Nietzsche. We have observed Andreyev’s destructive analysis 
of existing institutions, of man’s individual follies and collective 
foibles, of the frailty of faith and of reason’s futility. In this 
analysis he was able to follow, consciously or not, both philos¬ 
ophers, who agree in the main in their critique of life and man. 
But in drawing conclusions from their critique, the two part 
company. Andreyev’s further course is indicated in his state¬ 
ment, to the effect that after remaining for some time under the 
influence of Nietzsche, he ultimately reverted to Schopen¬ 
hauer . 44 For our purpose it will suffice to point out succinctly 
the divergences between the two philosophers, in so far as An¬ 
dreyev’s views are involved. 

As has been stated previously , 45 Nietzsche owed his analysis 
of the world to Schopenhauer, who formed the theme of his 
early work, Schopenhauer als Erzieher. Even later, after de¬ 
claring himself emancipated from his former master, Nietzsche 
affirmed the Schopenhauerian view that “das ganze menschliche 
Leben ist tief in die Unwarheit eingesenkt; der Einzelne kann 
es nicht aus diesem Brunnen herausziehen, ohne dabei seiner 

43 Paregra, etc., No. 172, a, p. 295 ( Werke—IV ). 

44 Supra, p. 179 - 

45 Supra, p. 183. 


290 Leonid Andreyev 

Vergangenheit aus tiefstem Grunde gram zu werden, ohne seine 
gegenwartigen Motive, wie die der Ehre, ungereimt zu finden 
und den Leidenschaften, welche zur Zukunft und zu einem Gluck 
in derselben hindrangen, Hohn und Verachtung entgegenzu- 
stellen.” 46 But whereas Schopenhauer proceeded to say “No” 
to this life of error and absurdity, Nietzsche declared his pas¬ 
sionate “Yes” to it. Himself a sufferer from physical and 
mental ailments, Nietzsche emerged from his trials a believer 
in life as it is, with all its negative traits. 47 He arrived at this 
view by way of replacing the Will-to-live by the Will-to-power 
as life’s chief motive and factor. Once we live, we are 
prompted in our strivings not merely to continue this process of 
living, 48 but to live more, better, to excel, to surpass, to intensify 
our faculties, to advance infinitely, to create unceasingly. Life 
is Will-to-power, a never-ending creative process of the growth 
and improvement of whatever possesses surplus energy, at the 
expense of the weak. 49 This driving force brushes aside all 
considerations which do not lead to the achievement of its goal. 
When truth, for example, may appear harmful to the growth of 
life, truth shall perish; 50 error and illusion have often served 
for the enhancement of life and for the progress of humanity. 51 

46 Menschliches Allzumenschliches —/, No. 34, p. 52 ( Werke — III). 

47 In his preface to Menschliches Allzumenschliches — II, p. 9 ( IVerke — IV), he 
says: “das hier ein Leidende und Entbehrender redet, wie als ob er nicht ein 
Leidender und Entbehrender sei. Hier soli das Gleichgewicht, die Gelassenheit, 
sogar die Dankbarkeit gegen das Leben aufrecht erhalten werden, hier waltet ein 
strenger, stolzer, bestandig wacher, bestandig reizbarer Wille, der sich die Auf- 
gabe gestellt hat, das Leben wider den Schmerz zu vertheidigen und alle Schliisse 
abzuknicken, welche aus Schmerz, Enttauschung, Uberdruss, Vereinsamung und 
andrem Moorgrunde gleich giftigen Schwammen aufzuwachsen pflegen.” 

48 “Es giebt keinen Willen zum Dasein. Was Dasein hat, kann nicht zum 
Dasein wollen; was kein Dasein hat, kann es auch nicht.” Nachgelassene IVerke, 
v. XI, p. 190. The same idea is expressed also in Also sprach Zarathustra: “Von 
der Selbst-iiberwindung,” p. 168: “‘Wille zum Dasein’: diesen Willen gibt es 
nicht!” 

49 “Ich lehre das Nein zu Allem, was schwach macht,—was erschopft. Ich lehre 
das Ja zu Allem, was starkt, was Kraft aufspeichert, was das Gefiihl der Kraft 
rechtfertigt.”— Wille zur Macht — I, No. 54, p. 46 (Werke — IX). The idea of 
Will-to-power runs through all the works of Nietzsche after his rupture with 
Wagner. 

50 Frohliche Wissenschaft, Forrede, 4, p. 37 (Werke — VI) ; Nachgelassene Werke 
— XIII, p. 124. 

51 Menschliches Allzumenschliches — I, No. 29, p. 46, 47; No. 31, pp. 48, 49 
(Werke—III); Morgenrothe, No. 248, p. 230; No. 307, pp. 251, 252 (Werke — V). 


Reason and Morality 291 

The question of moral or immoral does not exist, for life is 
essentially unmoral . 52 

This dynamic doctrine prompts Nietzsche to oppose vigor¬ 
ously Schopenhauer’s conclusions, even though he continues to 
accept his diagnosis. Yes, life is composed of pain and mis¬ 
ery, but this fact need not dictate to us the negation of life. 
On the contrary, to Nietzsche pain is one of the essential con¬ 
ditions of intense living, since it provokes the resistance of our 
Will-to-power, tests its endurance, probes its vitality . 53 Pain 
and suffering have been responsible for the advancement of the 
race . 54 We have seen that Andreyev, like most Russian writ¬ 
ers, regards pain in a similar way—as a significant and enrich¬ 
ing element of life . 55 Subtract this element of suffering from 
the lives of Andreyev’s characters (or from those of Dostoyev¬ 
sky), and you rob them of their very raison d'etre. In this re¬ 
spect, then, Andreyev is closer to Nietzsche than to Schopen¬ 
hauer. It is in his postulation of the ethical problem that 
Nietzsche estranges Andreyev. 

Nietzsche opposes Schopenhauer’s moral precepts on the 
same ground that he abhors all Jewish-Christian morality—as 
“slave morality,” designed for the weak and plebeian, and as 
the antithesis of the Greek-Roman “master morality, the ex¬ 
pression of the strong and the noble. Moral codes and im¬ 
pulses are to Nietzsche means employed by the Will-to-power 
for the furtherance of its aims, individual or collective. Chris¬ 
tianity has been adopted by the masses, the slaves, the weak, 
the ignoble, the cowardly, because it furthers their cause, by 

52 “Denn dieses Dasein ist unmoralisch. . . . Und dieses Leben ruht auf un- 
moralischen Voraussetzungen: und alle Moral verneint das Leben.”— Wille zur 
Macht—U, No. 461, p. 35 1 (Werke—IX). 

53 “lch schatze die Macht eines Willens darnach, wie viel von Widerstand, 
Schmerz, Tortur es aushalt und sich zum Vortheil umzuwandeln weiss; ich rechne 
dem Dasein nicht seinen Bosen und schmerzhaften Charakter zum Vorwurf an, 
sondern bin der Hoffnung, dass es einst boser und schmerzhafter sein wird, als 
bisher. . . ."—Wille zur Macht—II, No. 382, p. 282 ( Werke—IX ). 

54 “ihr wollt ... das Leiden abschaffen; und wir . . . wollen es lieber noch 
hoher und schlimmer haben, als je es war! . . . Die Zucht des Leidens, des 
grossen Leidens—wisst ihr nicht, dass nur diese Zucht alle Erhohungen des 
Menschen bisher geschaffen hat?”— Jenseits von Gut und Bose, No. 225, p. 180 
(Werke—VUI). 

65 Supra, p. 266 ff. 


292 Leonid Andreyev 

proclaiming the equality of all before God, and by championing 
such virtues as love (even for your enemy), humility, nonre¬ 
sistance, pity—virtues which would have been considered vices 
by “masters,” by the noble and aggressive . 56 And Nietzsche 
definitely allies himself with the “masters.” The Christian vir¬ 
tues are to him life-reducing, life-denying, as are those advo¬ 
cated by Schopenhauer. Pity, altruism, self-denial, are pre¬ 
scribed by Schopenhauer for a resignation diet, as means for the 
annihilation of our selfish desires and instincts, and for merging 
our illusory individuality in the Nirvana of human equality. 
Nietzsche rejects both pity and equality. Pity is an imperti¬ 
nence on the part of its bestower, and is offensive to its recipi¬ 
ent , 57 unless both of them be slaves. Pity poisons and depresses 
life, negates life, this being the reason for Schopenhauer’s en¬ 
thusiasm for this sentiment . 58 As to equality, the very idea of 
it sounds “unjust” to Nietzsche . 59 He sees a “Rangordnung” 
in every phase and walk of life; it is to him a biological as well 
as a spiritual fact. Even our body has higher and lower func¬ 
tionaries—an “oligarchic arrangement.” 60 Similarly the social 
organism is based on inequality, consisting of rulers and ruled, 
of masters and slaves, of those who command and those who 
obey . 61 Inequality, variability, gradation, distance between 
rank and rank, relieve life of the monotony which Schopenhauer 
sees in it, and lend it color, perpetual movement, conflict and 

66 Nietzsche’s views on morality are scattered through practically all his works. 
In a matured form they are made particularly clear in his Zur Genealogie der 
Moral; Der Antichrist; Der JVille zur Macht . 

57 “Ein Erraten sei dein Mitleiden: dass du erst wissest, ob dein Freund Mit- 
leiden wolle. Vielleicht liebt er an dir das ungebrochene Auge und den Blick 
der Ewigkeit.”— Also sprach Zarathustra: “Vom Freunde,” p. 82 ( IV erke — VII). 
“Wahrlich, ich mag sie nicht, die Barmherzigen, die selig sind in ihrem Mitleiden: 
zu sehr gebricht es ihnen an Scham.”— Ibid., “Von den Mitleidigen,” p. 127. 

68 “Das Mitleiden steht im Gegensatz zu den tonischen Affekten, welche die 
Energie des Lebensgefiihls erhohn: es wirkt depressiv. Mann verliert Kraft, wenn 
man mitleidet . . . Schopenhauer war in seinem Recht damit: durch das Mitleid 
wird das Leben verneint, verneinungswurdiger gemacht . . .”— Antichrist, No. 7, 
pp. 363, 364 ( Werke — X). 

59 “. . . Denn so redet mir die Gerechtigkeit: ‘die Menschen sind nicht gleich.’” 
— Also sprach Zarathustra: “Von den Taranteln,” p. 146. 

60 Genealogie der Moral — II, No. I, p. 344 (IVerke — VIII). 

61 Wille zur Macht—IV: I: “Rangordnung,” No. 854 ff., p. 105 ff. (W erke 

X ). 


Reason and Morality 293 

incentive. Nietzsche not only asserts the existence of this con¬ 
dition of inequality: he exalts it, regards it as a mark of every 
“strong time,” 62 as a pledge for evolution and progress, as a 
stimulus for perpetual self-surpassing. Life presents an end¬ 
less series of stages, each one superior to some one stage and 
inferior to some other stage, the Will-to-power imbuing all and 
everything with a striving forward. Thus the present society 
may have its justification not in its existence for its own sake, 
but as a means for a “stronger race,” 63 and man in general 
must accelerate his own disappearance, in order to give room 
to the superman, for whom he serves as a bridge. 64 

Schopenhauer’s ideal man emanates from resignation, from 
indifference to life and all desires. Through pity for others 
he frees himself from the burden of individual personality (an 
illusion in itself), and melts in the sea of suffering humanity. 
Nietzsche’s superman is to be the product of overbrimming life, 
of excessive energy and Will-to-power. He is endowed with 
a distinct personality, fully developed, immune from pettiness 
and weakness, from all such sentiments as may impede his 
further, never ceasing growth. The superman need not be con¬ 
sidered as an ultimate goal, since in the light of Nietzsche’s doc¬ 
trine he is to be regarded merely as a rung in the evolutionary 
ladder which leads into the infinite. Georg Simmel justly 
names Nietzsche’s ideal “Personalism,” 65 for the superman is 

62 Nietzsche considers the Renaissance as the last “great” time, whereas ours 
is to him petty and weak, with its virtues and aspirations. “Die ‘Gleichheit,’ 
eine gewisse thatsachliche Anahnlichung . . . gehort wesentlich zum Niedergang: 
die Kluft zwischen Mensch und Mensch, Stand und Stand, die Vielheit der Typen, 
der Wille, selbst zu sein, sich abzuheben—Das, was ich Pathos der Distanz nenne, 
ist jeder \tarken Zeit zu eigen ."-Gotzen-Dammerung, No. 37, p. 324 {Werke 

_ X ) # 

a 3 IVille zur Macht, No. 898, p. 134 (W erke—X ).. .. . 

64 “Der Mensch ist ein Seil, gekniipft zwischen Tier und Ubermensch—ein Sell 
iiber einem Abgrunde. ... Ich liebe Den, welcher lebt, damit er erkenne, und 
welcher erkennen will, damit einst der Ubermensch lebe. Und so will er semen 
Untergang. Ich liebe Den, welcher arbeitet und erfindet, dass er dem Uber- 
menschen das Haus baue und zu ihm Erde, Tier und Pflanze vorbereite: denn so 
will er seinen Untergang.”— Also sprach Zarathustra: Vorrede, 4, P- 16* 

65 Simmel rejects the popular view that Nietzsche’s teaching is egoistic. Der 
Egoismus will etwas haben, der Personalismus will etwas sein. Damit stellt er 
sich jenseits des Gegensatzes von Eudamonismus und Moralismus, m dem die 
Kantische Moral aufging. Der Eudamonismus fragt: Was gibt mir die Welt? 


294 


Leonid Andreyev 


the ideal of a relatively complete, fully expressed, creative per- 

sonality. . . X7 . , 

Andreyev refuses to accept Nietzsche’s positive ideal. With 
all his contempt for the average man, for the herd, Andreyev 
cannot subscribe to a doctrine primarily designed for the few 
and the exceptional, 66 ignoring humanity in favor of the super¬ 
man. 67 We have inferred (page 289) this stand of his from 
the fact of his apparent acceptance of Schopenhauer s positive 
ideal. The Ocean offers an opportunity for interpreting An¬ 
dreyev’s direct attitude toward the idea of the superman. 

The Ocean (subtitle: “A Tragedy”) is one of Andreyev’s 
most cryptic productions. Through its symbolic maze one may 
discern the perplexed mind of the author, torn in twain between 
contempt and sympathy for men, between denial and acceptance 
of life, between the “shore” where abide the many-too-many, 
and the “ocean,” the unknown expanse whither bold spirits ven¬ 
ture in quest of new horizons. 68 In this drama Andreyev draws 
one of his conceptions of the superman, that “strange vision” 
which has been pursuing him since his student years. He per¬ 
sonifies him in Haggart, the captain of a pirate vessel flying 
under black sails—evidently symbolizing Great Reason. For 
some cause or other—is it his nostalgia for the herd life? 
Haggart lingers on the shore, below the lighthouse of the Holy 
Cross, amidst the ruins of an Old Tower. He openly despises 
the villagers, greedy fishermen for whom the ocean is only a sup¬ 
plier of fish. They are ruled by the Abbe, who while also de¬ 
spising the fishermen pities them at the same time, and who, like 
Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor, tries to make life easier for 
them by deceiving them, by not afflicting them with truth. The 

Der Moralismus: Was gebe ich der Welt? Fur Nietzsche aber handelt es sich 
uberhaupt nicht mehr um ein Geben, sondern um eine Seinsbeschaffenheit . . . m- 
soweit sie eine bestimmte Entwicklungshohe des Typus Mensch darstellt.” 
Schopenhauer und Nietzsche, p. 245. . . 

ee “Wir Anderen sind die Ausnahme und die Gefahr . . . es lasst sich wirklich 
Etwas zu Gunsten der Ausnahme sagen, 'vorausgcsetzt dass sie nie Regel werden 
will.”—Die frohliche Wissenschaft,^ No. 76, p. 132 ( Werke—VI ). 

67 “Nicht ‘Menschheit,’ sondern Ubermensch ist das Ziel!”— Wille zur Macht, 
No. 1001, p. 188 ( Werke — X ). 

es cf. Nietzsche’s aphorism on the “ocean of becoming”— Morgenrothe, No. 
314, p. 254 {Werke—V), 


295 


Reason and Morality 

ambiguity of his compromising tenets is apparent from the pres¬ 
ence of his ‘‘adopted” daughter, Mariette; it is an open secret 
that he is her real father. His is a convenient religion, adapted 
to the requirements of a weak and cowardly race. But Mar¬ 
iette is drawn to Haggart, to his bold black sails. To her the 
greedy fishermen are dead, and the religion of her father false. 
“A God who makes corpses out of men, is no God. We shall 
go in search of a new God,” cries Mariette, the embodiment of 
yearning humanity. Her heart is torn by contradictions, by 
conflicting emotions, by shreds of beliefs poisoned with acid 
doubts, by hatred of the present, and hope mingled with fear 
for the future. She clings to Haggart, she would trust him, 
for is he not truthful and courageous? Has he not freed him¬ 
self from the chains of all dogmas, and is he not flying under 
the rebellious Black Sails? Haggart is not only negatively 
free. He seems to know not only from what but also for what 
he is free. Says he: 

Had I a ship, I should race after the sun. And however many golden 
sails it might set, I should overtake it with my black sails. And I should 
force the sun to outline my shadow on the deck of my ship. And I 
should plant my foot on it—like this! 69 

This race after the sun may be a vague venture, but at all events 
it stands for striving away and up from the miserable existence 
on the shore. Away from the Old Tower—old codes and 
standards, this once strong shelter from violent breezes which 
is now a peril and a risk for those who would venture under 
its battered roof. Away from the lighthouse of the Holy 
Cross: its light is too faint, too dim, too gentle, to be of any 
aid in storms. Haggart is determined to start out on the 
boundless ocean, in search of new horizons, of unlimited vistas. 
He is to be accompanied by Mariette who is weary and sick of 
the shore, and by the little son she has borne him. Under the 
Black Sails, Haggart will lead Mariette and the product of their 
union onward to race with the sun. One recalls Nietzsche’s 
fine lines: 


60 Works—XIII, p. 19 - 


296 Leonid Andreyev 

Saht ihr nie ein Segel iiber das Meer gehn, gerundet und geblaht und 
zitternd vor dem Ungestiim des Windes? Dem Segel gleich, zitternd 
vor dem Ungestiim des Geistes, geht meine Weisheit iiber das Meer 
meine wilde Weisheit! 70 

But just at the moment when the ship is to set out on the 
great adventure, an “accident” takes place. The Abbe, the 
dispenser of hope and life among the fisherman, is killed by 
Haggart’s boatswain, old Horre. No reason is given for the 
murder, but Horre insinuates, and the crew second him, that 
it has been committed by Haggart’s order. The captain has 
never given such an order, yet one feels that he is responsible, 
indirectly, for the act of Horre, a mere tool of Haggart’s will. 
The situation resembles the murder of old Karamazov, in 
Dostoyevsky’s story, where the actual slayer, Smerdyakov, 
justly ascribes the guilt to Ivan Karamazov, whose philosophy 
of “Everything is permitted” has generated in him the idea of 
murder. Horre nursed Haggart in his infancy, and now he 
is his faithful though unthinking follower, his devoted servant, 
his blind slave. He has no ambition for racing with the sun. 
His only slogan is: “Hit ’em on the head!” Under the Black 
Sails there is room for many varieties of Great Reason—for 
Nemovetskys and Lorenzos, for Haggarts and Horres. The 
“freedom” of Horre is not of the kind that may benefit the 
evolution of the race, it is of that brutal, vulgar variety, con¬ 
cerning which Zarathustra feels so uneasy: 

Bist du ein Solcher, der einem Joche entrinnen durftef Es gibt 
manchen, der seinen letzten Wert wegwarf, als er seine Dienstbarkeit 
wegwarf. 71 

Mariette is indignant. She still clings to some traditions 
of the Old Tower, such as justice. Can they start their glo¬ 
rious journey, with crime at their heels? But Haggart reas¬ 
sures her. He overcomes his devotion to his old slave, Horre, 
and orders him hanged. Mariette is ecstatic over this act of 

70 Also sprach Zarathustra: “Von den beriihmten Weisen,” p. 152 ( IVerke 
—VII). 

71 Ibid., “Vom Wege des Schaffenden,” p. 92. 


Reason and Morality 297 

justice. She admits that heretofore she has been afraid of 
Haggart’s power, but now she cries: 

Thou art strong and just . . . Gart, may I shout to the sea: Haggart 
the Just? 

Haggart. That is not true. Silence, Mariette ... I know not what 
justice is! 72 

Which he proceeds to demonstrate. The crew perform a flimsy 
manoeuvre with a broken rope, so as to save their comrade, with 
whom they are in perfect harmony. Haggart yields to the 
half-truth, and frees Horre. Under the Black Sails there is 
no such thing as absolute truth, as truth at any cost. Nietzsche 
scoffs at the “metaphysical belief” of Plato and Christianity 
that God is truth and truth is divine. 73 Truth and falsehood 
are to be regarded from the point of view of their usefulness 
or harmfulness to the preservation and intensification of life. 
In the eyes of a Nietzschean, will-to-truth may be equivalent 
to will-to-death, since it implies the maxim of Pereat vita, fiat 
veritas. Haggart knows only the truth of Great Reason, the 
truth taught to him by his father: 

There is but one truth and one law for all: for the sun, for the wind, 
for the waves, for the beast—only man has a different truth. Beware of 
the truth of man! 74 

But humanity is not ripe for the reign of Reason unalloyed, 
be it even Great Reason, because humanity is not morally in the 
same category with the sun and the wind and the waves. Hu¬ 
manity cannot endure Haggarts any more than it can tolerate 
Kerzhentsevs. Hence Mariette’s ideal is shattered. So even 
Haggart yields to compromising lies! She will not follow him. 
And while the Black Sails are raised over the pirate vessel, 
Mariette remains on the shore and flings her curse at Haggart. 

Andreyev’s solidarity with Mariette is felt unmistakably. 
He is with her when she is infatuated with Haggart’s strength, 

72 works—.XIII, p. 145- 

73 Die frohliche Wissenschaft, No. 344, p. 298 ff. (Werke—VI). 

74 Works—XIII, p. 118. 


298 Leonid Andreyev 

bigness, directness, and superiority over the petty herd of fish¬ 
ermen. He is ready to greet Haggart’s venture into the ocean, 
in quest of unknown opportunities for the expression of his 
personality, with the intention of forcing the sun to “outline 
his shadow” on the ship’s deck. But the champion of “Per¬ 
sonalism” cannot apparently live up to Simmel’s expectation— 
that he manifest his creative existence, outside of giving and 
taking 75 : he is impelled to blaze a path for his aggressive per¬ 
sonality, even if it lie across the bodies of others. And here 
Andreyev refuses to follow Haggart, one of the superman’s 
personifications. He rejects Haggart’s application of the Will- 
to-power, wherein he becomes undistinguishable from Horre. 
Haggart appears quite consistent in brushing aside the consid¬ 
eration of truth, when it interferes with Great Reason. Has 
not Zarathustra asserted that his Will-to-power walketh even 
on the feet of the Will-to-truth ? 76 One may, indeed, question 
whether Nietzsche would approve of Haggart as a protagonist 
of the superman, remembering the sterling nobility he demands 
from him. 77 Haggart is a vulgarized edition of the superman. 
The broken rope as an argument for the release of Horre is 
worthy of that arch-logician and high priest of Small Reason, 
the writer of My Memoirs. But Andreyev is justified in 
demonstrating one of the multifarious aspects of the Great 
Reason, one of the numerous potential variants of the super¬ 
man. 

Andreyev rejects the superman, the ideal of the few, because 
he is largely concerned with, and speaks for, the average rank- 
and-file modern man of reflective faculties. Knowing as he 
does all the failings and follies of men, and with all his contempt 
for those who cling to old values and illusions, he nevertheless 
sides with Marusya as against the Astronomer (in To the 
Stars ) and sympathizes with Mariette in her refutation of the 
pragmatic superman, Haggart. “Strong and just” is what 

75 See supra, p. 294. 

76 “. . . wahrlich, mein Wille zur Macht wandelt auch auf den Fiissen deines 
Willens zur Warheit!”— Also sprach Zarathustra: “Von der Selbst-Uber- 
windung,” p. 168. 

77 Cf. Wille zur Macht, Nos. 935, 943, 944, p. 154 ff. {Werke—X). 


299 


Reason and Morality 

Mariette, and with her yearning humanity, hopes for in the 
ideal man. Not finding this combination in Haggart she re¬ 
fuses to follow him. Rather than race the sun under the Black 
Sails covering up small falsehoods, she will stay on the shore, 
close to the ridiculous Old Tower, in view of the pathetically 
feeble light of the Holy Cross. To remain on the shore, to 
live with the miserable fishermen, to share their sufferings, while 
knowing the drawbacks and the futility of such a life, is the lot 
of him who follows the ethical precepts of Schopenhauer. 

To avoid misapprehension, we must remember that it would 
be hazardous to ascribe to Andreyev fixed conclusions and defi¬ 
nite solutions. By pointing out wherein he approaches the ideal 
of Schopenhauer, and wherein he departs from Nietzsche, we 
are suggesting certain leanings in Andreyev’s wavering, unity- 
lacking mind, farther than nailing down any ultimate decisions 
on his part. For Andreyev neither accepts nor rejects wholly. 
Like Dostoyevsky, he contains within himself multiple contrasts 
and discrepancies. “Particularly striking was the coexistence in 
Leonid Nikolayevich of two contradictory attitudes to the 
world, and their everlasting conflict, under the burden of which 
he often languished,” is the testimony of Mme. Andreyev (in 
a letter to me), than whom no one understood him better. 
Not infrequently he presents antipodal characters in his works, 
without perceptibly tilting the balance of judgment to one side 
or another. His Astronomer and Marusya (in To the Stars) 
voice mutually exclusive views, yet both are drawn by the author 
with evident sympathy. Similarly, in juxtaposing Jesus and 
Judas ( Judas Iscariot ), Leiser and Anathema (Anathema), 
Haggart and Mariette ( The Ocean), Storitsyn and Telemakhov 
(Professor Storitsyn), Judea and Philistia (Samson En¬ 
chained), Andreyev does not ally himself unreservedly with 
either side. Even when the characters are obviously “nega¬ 
tive,” as, for instance, Judas, Anathema, Haggart, the author 
emphasizes their “positive” features lovingly and impartially, 78 

78 Mme. Andreyev tells me that occasionally she would question her husband, 
while he was creating one of his “dualistic” works, as to how he could contain 


300 Leonid Andreyev 

and through making them suffer he raises them to the heights of 
atoning tragedy. 

This faculty of seeing simultaneously both sides of the coin 
is not apt to grant peace and comfort to its possessor. Andre¬ 
yev groaned under the yoke of this double vision. Time and 
again he sought escape in an attempted fusion of opposing 
views, in a synthesis. One of his paintings—the one he cared 
most about—resembles a Byzantine ikon, and presents Jesus 
and Judas crucified on the same cross, with a common wreath of 
thorns on their heads. 79 This seemingly sacrilegious idea is 
suggested also by the words of Judas (Judas Iscariot), ad¬ 
dressed to the mother of Jesus, whom he perceives weeping at 
the cross: “Thou weepest, mother? Weep, weep, and long 
will all the mothers of earth weep with thee: until I come with 
Jesus and we destroy death.” 80 Throughout the story we are 
made to feel Judas’s yearning for his antithesis, Jesus, as a com¬ 
plementary counterpart. Andreyev seems to dream from time 
to time of an utopian combination of antipodal traits. A syn¬ 
thesis of gentle Jesus, with his love condoning human frailties 
and follies, and of the ruthless advocatus diaboli of the one 
never-closing, ever-accusing eye; a harmonious union of Aye 
and Nay, of spontaneous acceptance of life, creative and con¬ 
structive, and of alert analysis, dissecting and destructive. A 
similar synthesis is suggested in Anathema, where the Guardian 
addresses the futile seeker as an “unfortunate spirit, deathless 
in numbers, eternally alive in measures and in weights, but as 
yet unborn to life.” 81 As yet! Like Judas, he is one-eyed. 
He lacks spontaneous feeling, he is all intellect. Life eschews 
such hypertrophy. A combination of Anathema and David, 
of head and heart, of keen analysis and unreasoning love, is 
once more inferred as an ideal solution. Again, in the final 

two contradictory attitudes. He would answer jocosely: “I am a lawyer. For a 
poltinnik [half a ruble] I can plead the case of the defendant as readily as that 
of the plaintiff.” 

79 Andreyev often mentions this painting in his diary and in his letters (es¬ 
pecially to Goloushev). Cf. also Chukovsky, in A Book on Andreyev, p. 43, and 
Tivo Truths, p. 89. 

Works — VII, p. 233. 

Scene 7, pp. 169, 170. 


Reason and Morality 301 

scene of the Black Maskers there is a hint at some synthesis in 
the words of Francesca concerning the child she feels under her 
breast. She promises to tell her child of its father, Duke Lor¬ 
enzo, who has burned himself alive in the purging fire of truth. 
Francesca symbolizes beauty and purity, Lorenzo merciless anal¬ 
ysis. Will the offspring of the two combine both characters? 
The same motive sounds at the conclusion of The Ocean . 
Mariette lifts her baby toward the sea, where the pirate ship is 
ready to start under its Black Sails, and shouts to Haggart that 
their son, little Noni, will grow up and hang his father at 
the mast-head. Their son—again a synthesis, a combina¬ 
tion of Haggart and Mariette, of will-to-power and justice- 
truth. 

The kinship between Nietzsche and Andreyev, their differ¬ 
ences notwithstanding, has been shown in the course of this es¬ 
say. One may recall that the synthetic motive is common to 
both of them. To Zarathustra the “Great Noontide,” the ripe 
hour when the advent of the superman becomes possible, is an¬ 
nounced by a significant “sign,” the communion of the lion and 
the doves. The hardness of the diamond, the fearlessness of 
the lion, the wisdom of the serpent, the flight of the eagle, these 
virtues Zarathustra deems indispensable for building up the 
superman, for overcoming the bedwarfing temptation of the 
“last man.” Yet he admits that these virtues are not sufficient 
for the consummation of the ideal, that they must have their 
complement in the gentleness of the dove. “It is the stillest 
words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ 
footsteps guide the world.” 82 Andreyev may have noted Za- 
rathustra’s exclamation at the sight of the lion and the doves: 
“Meine Kinder sind nahe, meine Kinder.” 83 The ideal man 
will be personified not in Jesus or in David Leiser, not in Hag¬ 
gart or Judas or Anathema, not even in Zarathustra—the fore¬ 
runner, but in their “children,” in their problematic, utopian 
syntheses. Toward the land of the children yearns the seeker: 

S2 “Die stillste Worte sind es, welche den Sturm bringen. Gedanken, die mit 
Taubenfussen kommen, lenken die Welt ."—Also sprach Zarathustra: “Die stillste 
Stunde,” p. 217 ( Werke — VII ). 

Ibid., “Das Zeichen,” p. 474. 


302 Leonid Andreyev 

Ach, wohin soil ich nun noch steigen mit meiner Sehnsucht! Von alien 
Bergen schaue ich aus nach Vater-und Mutterlandern. Aber Heimat 
fand ich nirgends; unstet bin ich in alien Stadten und ein Aufbruch an 
alien Toren. Fremd sind mir und ein Spott die Gegenwartigen, zu denen 
mich jiingst das Herz trieb; und vertrieben bin ich aus Vater-und 
Mutterlandern. So liebe ich allein noch meiner Kinder Land, das unent- 
deckte, im fernsten Meere: nach ihm beisse ich meine Segel suchen und 
suchen. An meinen Kindern will ich es gut machen, dass ich meiner Vater 
Kind bin: und an aller Zukunft —diese Gegenwart! 84 

Hope in a better future, in a synthetic man relegated to the 
“land of the children,” brings Andreyev once more closer to 
Nietzsche than to Schopenhauer, who could see no chance for 
the world’s amelioration. We have been able to observe An¬ 
dreyev’s kinship to both these philosophers, through a common 
critical evaluation of life as it is, and a common quest for a dig¬ 
nified modus vivendi for man. Finding it possible in the main 
to follow both of them in regard to the first problem, Andre¬ 
yev was forced to vacillate between the two in his examination 
of the second question. Should man’s ideal be the reduction of 
the life-impulse to a minimum, or its augmentation to the «th 
degree? Is man’s mission to abnegate his self, and live for 
others, or is man to practice the teaching of Personalism, and 
to ignore everything and everybody in favor of his personal 
growth and expression? Andreyev does not come out decid¬ 
edly for one solution or the other. His treatment of these 
questions suggests a painful effort to reconcile Schopenhauer 
and Nietzsche, to arrive at a synthesis. 

%*lbid. t “Vom Lande der Bildung,” p. 177. 


V 


RECAPITULATIONS 

Variants of former themes.—Maturity of tone and conceptions. Con¬ 
temporary social life at a standstill.—Pseudo-parliamentarism. 
Cadets, and The Pretty Sabine Women.— Political adaptabil¬ 
ity, —Merit of the Cadets.—Demoralizing effect of official pol¬ 
icy.—Reign of pettiness and vulgarity, portrayed in Professor 
Storitsyn, Katherina Ivanovna, Thou Shalt Not Kill ♦—Storitsyn 
and Savvich.—Mentikov, omnipotent pettiness.—Yakov, the 
Russian people.— He Who Gets Slapped. —Intellect and beauty 
profaned.— The Waltz of the Dogs— Solitude motive.— Samson 
Enchained, Andreyev’s triumph.—Man’s inner conflict.—An¬ 
dreyev’s decline, in Satan s Diary—A characteristic close to 
Andreyev’s career. 

During the last years of his life (1912-1919) Andreyev 
created nothing that was new in form or in motive. His writ¬ 
ings of this period present largely repetitions or elaborations of 
former themes, and further illustrations of his basic points of 
view. His premise is the same: a negative attitude toward 
life, man, human intellect and institutions. What he proceeds 
to draw is merely one detail or another, one situation or an¬ 
other, for the substantiation of the premised idea. Only he 
no longer vacillated in the direction of hope and encouragement, 
as he did on occasion in the preceding period: the picture he 
now projects on his canvas is consistently gloomy, whether it 
reflects the opportunism of the Russian liberals ( The Pretty 
Sabine Women), or the reign of vulgarity in life ( Professor 
Storitsyn ), or the omnipotence of pettiness ( Katherina Ivan¬ 
ovna), or the tragedy of misplaced force ( Thou Shalt Not 
Kill), or the eternal drama of man’s solitude ( The Waltz of 
the Dogs), of man’s inner discord ( Samson Enchained), or of 
man’s prodigious villainy ( Satan's Diary). Andreyev’s last 

303 


304 Leonid Andreyev 

period resembles his first period, both by its unrelieved gloom 
and by the realistic style of the writings that fall within it. 
But, needless to say, the later Andreyev has acquired maturity 
and greater depth in his evaluations as well as in his style. 
Toward the end of his life he speaks with the sad wisdom of 
experience, and he speaks in the sure tones of a realism under¬ 
standable to all, yet pregnant with symbolic significances. 

Coincidentally, Russian life during the years preceding the 
war was at a standstill, at least on the surface. Apathy and 
stagnation seemed to have taken the place of the recent intense 
activity which had spurred Russia to live through in weeks 
events, hopes and disappointments, normally requiring years 
and generations. The public was weary of the strenuous years 
of war, strikes, revolts, broken promises and shattered hopes, 
punitive expeditions, wholesale executions and political noise 
in general. Life seemed to have become normal again, dif¬ 
fering but little from the state of affairs before 1905. The lib¬ 
erties solemnly granted in the October Manifesto (namely, per¬ 
sonal inviolability, freedom of conscience, speech, meetings, and 
associations, equal franchise, and the “immutable rule that no 
law can ever come into force without the approval of the State 
Duma”), were withdrawn, explained away, “modified” into 
nothingness. When the first and second Dumas, despite gov¬ 
ernmental interference and police coercion, gave an overwhelm¬ 
ing majority to the opposition, Premier Stolypin perpetrated a 
coup d’etat. In June, 1907, the electoral law was modified in 
such a way that the majority of seats in the third and fourth 
(last) Dumas belonged to the landowners and to the large cap¬ 
italists. Even the “desirable” Duma had little power, how¬ 
ever: its measures had to be sanctioned by the Council of State 
(the upper house), half of which consisted of the tsar’s appoint¬ 
ees. The “parliament” was reduced to a pliable tool in the 
hands of the Government. When one of the chambers had the 
audacity to oppose Stolypin, the latter did not scruple to pro¬ 
rogue the “parliament” for three days, during which time he 
promulgated the rejected law as an emergency measure. In 
1912 P. N. Milyukov admitted that “the five years of the third 


Recapitulations 3°5 

Duma had sufficiently clarified the situation. In order to ac- 
quire one single right—to exist, the Duma had to become one 
of the wheels in the bureaucratic machine.” 1 Count Witte, the 
author of the Constitutional Manifesto, bitterly attacked Alex¬ 
ander Guchkov, leader of the Octoberist party, for hailing 
Stolypin as the protagonist of the “new order.” “I assert,” 
wrote Witte, “that in the new, renovated order, which Guchkov 
champions at present, only the corpse of October 30 is pre¬ 
served, that under the banner of a ‘constitutional regime’ . . . 
they [the Government] have augmented their own power to 
unlimited, absolute, unprecedented arbitrariness.” 2 

The revolutionary forces were once more driven under¬ 
ground. No political party to the left of the Octoberists was 
permitted to function legally. Consequently not only the so¬ 
cialist groups but even the liberals existed “illegally.” The 
latter, namely the Constitutional-Democratic party, better 
known as the Cadets, occupied a very delicate position. This 
party contained the most cultured men of Russia, liberal-minded 
professors, lawyers, physicians, engineers, journalists, landown¬ 
ers, manufacturers and average middle-class persons. Though 
opposed to the Government, the Cadets did not approve of the 
principles and tactics of the revolutionists, and endeavored to 
follow a middle course, which was most difficult under the cir¬ 
cumstances. Composed of various elements, the party wavered 
from the right to the left and back again, shifting its policy time 
and again. The Cadets formed the largest group in the first 
two Dumas, but while in the first Duma they demanded the sub¬ 
ordination of the Government to the parliament, 3 in the second 

1 Yearbook of the Daily Speech ( Yezhegodnik gazety Ryech ), p. 94. Petrograd, 
1912. Though a prominent figure in the Duma, Milyukov grew more and more 
pessimistic in his view of the value of this institution. Cf. his article on ‘The 
Representative System in Russia,” in Russian Realities and Problems, pp. 25-46. 
Cambridge, England, 1917. Also p. 5 of his book, Russia To-Day and To-Morrow. 
New York, 1922. 

2 Speech, October 8, 1911. Quoted in Russia’s Riches, October 1911, p. 118, foot¬ 
note. . . 

3 V. Nabokov: “The executive power shall submit to the legislative power. In 
his speech in the first Duma, May 13, 190 6.—Stenographic Reports—I, p. 326. Pet¬ 
rograd, 1906. I. I. Petrunkevich: “Popular representation in Russia can exist 
only when there shall be a ministry responsible before the Duma . . . The ulti- 


306 Leonid Andreyev 

Duma they pursued the “siege tactics” advocated by their able 
leader, Paul N. Milyukov. 4 Though legally a forbidden party, 
they tried to coordinate their words and acts with the existing 
laws. The legalistic opportunism of the Cadets was satirized 
by Andreyev in The Pretty Sabine Women? 

The Cadets are the husbands of the Sabine women—the lib¬ 
erties declared in October 1905—abducted by the Roman sol¬ 
diers—the Government. The leader of the bereaved husbands 
assembles them to march to the camp of the kidnappers, armed 
with heavy volumes of laws, enactments and decisions, and with 
four hundred tomes of investigations compiled by their jurists 
on the question of the legality of their marriages and the 
illegality of the kidnapping. The just Sabines reject other 
weapons and violent methods as unworthy of their dignity: 
“Our weapons are a clear conscience and the justice of our 
cause.” The leader has some difficulty in training the Sabines 
how to march, for they are not quite sure of their right and of 
their left. Moreover, he has a special system of marching: 

Two steps forward, one step backward; two steps forward, one step 
backward. The first two steps are designed to indicate, Sabines, the 
unquenchable fire of our stormy souls, the firm will, the irresistible ad¬ 
vance. The step backward symbolizes the step of reason, the step of ex¬ 
perience and of the mature mind. In taking that step we ponder the 
outcome of our acts. In taking it we also maintain, as it were, a close 
bond with tradition, with our ancestors, with our great past. History 

mate result . . . will be either a coup d’etat, the withdrawal of the constitutional 
charter of October 30 and the abolition of popular representation, or the complete 
victory of the latter, and the establishment of a responsible and parliamentary 
ministry.”— In The First State Duma (Pervaya gosudarstvennaya duma). Petro- 
grad, 1907. 

4 “Not by storm, but by regular siege . . . Not hopeless ‘demands, but a system¬ 
atic effort to conquer the position occupied by the enemy . . . No need to hurry, 
the conflict will be serious and lasting.”— The Second Duma (Vtoraya Duma). 
Petrograd, 1908. 

5 During the season of 1915-1916 this play ran with considerable success at the 
Chicago Little Theatre, under the direction of Maurice Browne. Though a politi¬ 
cal satire, the play was enjoyed for its genuine humor even by those who knew 
nothing about the Cadets. As in the case of He Who Gets Slapped, the uninitiated 
audience liked the play for its visible value, regardless of its underlying meaning 
—an acid test for a symbolistic play. 


Recapitulations 307 

makes no leaps, and we, Sabines, at this great moment, we are history. 
Trumpeters, trumpet! 6 

One recognizes in Martius, the leader of the husbands, An¬ 
dreyev’s pet aversion—the dogmatic preacher of common sense. 
He speaks in the turgid style of the slimy author of My 
Memoirs, also dragging in reason and logic to cover his cow¬ 
ardly adaptability. “Two steps forward, one step backward” 
was the way Lenin characterized the policy of opportunistic 
revolutionists, in a pamphlet of the same title, published about 
1902. In employing this slogan for the Cadets, Andreyev 
voiced the opinion of those opposed to the tactics of Milyukov 
and his party, both from the conservative and from the radical 
sides. It is the fate of mediators, of reconcilers, of neutrals, 
of neither-one-thing-nor-the-other, to be disliked and despised 
by their antagonists on either side. The Cadets pleased none 
of their opponents by their splendid oratory, their erudite ar¬ 
guments, their forceful exhortations, their pathetic appeals to 
justice, right, and humanity. Of what avail are the efforts of 
the Sabine husbands to prove the legality of their marriages and 
the illegality of the abduction of their wives? The Roman sol¬ 
diers do not even attempt to deny either of these postulates. 
To touch the conscience of the Government was as easy as to 
make a Cossack blush. The government of Stolypin and his 
successors acted as victors by virtue of superior force, and they 
used force without stint in subduing the vanquished. Russia 
presented two sharply divided camps—the Government, with 
those of the landowners and manufacturers who supported the 
drastic policy of Restoration, and the broad layers of the peo¬ 
ple, robbed of the concessions they won in October, 1905. The 
balance of power depended on the army. As long as it re¬ 
mained unthinkingly loyal and obedient to the authorities, the 
people’s cause had no chance for success. The revolutionary 
parties recognized this fact, and concentrated their efforts on 
revolutionizing the army and the young workmen and peasants, 

6 Works — XIV, Act II, p. 178 (quoted after the translation of Meader and Scott, 
Plays by Leonid. Andreyeff, p. 182). 


308 Leonid Andreyev 

who were prospective recruits. Meanwhile the eloquent Ca¬ 
dets continued to vie with the laurels of Mirabeau and Parnell. 
The Government trampled under its heavy boot all considera¬ 
tions of law and justice, cynically destroying any respect for 
these conceptions, but the Cadets persevered in acting the out¬ 
raged innocents, and in strictly adhering to the legal code. 
When the Sabine women suggest that their husbands should re¬ 
abduct them from the Romans, Martius refuses to commit vio¬ 
lence, to jeopardize his “legal conscience,” and he beats a gran¬ 
diloquent retreat: 

Long live the law! Let them take my wife from me by brute violence; 
let them ruin my home; let them extinguish my hearth; I shall never 
prove false to the law. Let the whole world laugh at the unfortunate 
Sabines, they will not prove false to the law. Virtue commands respect, 
even in rags. Sabines, retreat! Weep, Sabines, weep bitter tears! Sob, 
beat your breasts, and be not ashamed of tears. Let them stone us, let 
them mock us, but weep! Let them besmear us with mud! Weep, 
Sabines; you are weeping for the scorned and down-trampled law. For¬ 
ward, Sabines. Attention! Trumpeters, strike up the march. Two 
steps forward, one step backward; two steps forward, one step backward ! 7 

Justice demands that one should credit the Cadets with at 
least one merit—the preservation of the Duma. Since the sec¬ 
ond Duma their slogan had been: “Spare the Duma,” which 
was by no means an easy task. The Cadets had to steer be¬ 
tween the Scylla of revolutionary outbursts on the part of the 
Left, and the Charybdis of provocative onslaughts by the ex¬ 
treme Right, whose leaders were openly supported and encour¬ 
aged by the Government in their hostility to the Duma. It is 
a debatable question as to the net results of the twelve years of 
the Duma’s existence. But one can hardly deny the fact that 
it performed an educational service in the development of the 
national political consciousness. For twelve years the politi¬ 
cally untrained country watched the performances of the quasi¬ 
parliament, and, if anything, it must have gained information 
as to what is not a true representative form of government. 

1 Ibid., p. 185. (Meader and Scott, p. 194.) 


Recapitulations 3°9 

Again, one must remember that the tribune of the Duma was 
the only place from which the country could be addressed by 
such speakers as Milyukov, Rodichev, Shingarev, Nabokov, 
Aladyin, Kerensky, Chkheidze, Tseretelli and others, whose 
denunciations of the existing order became accessible to millions 
of eager readers and to even more millions of illiterate listen¬ 
ers. Whether it ultimately pleased Milyukov and his group 
or not, through their efforts the Duma had played the role of 
a grandiose soap box for the spread of subversive ideas among 
the Russian population. 

At the same time the reigning policy could not but have a 
demoralizing effect on the public. The adage that a people 
have the kind of government they deserve does not preclude 
the possibility that a government may infect, not merely mirror, 
the governed. And the Russian government, from the end of 
1905 to March 1917, reeked with cynicism and falsehood. Be¬ 
fore the October uprising official Russia was avowedly auto¬ 
cratic, paternalistic, despotic, a mixture of Byzantine and Tar¬ 
tar traditions. In their struggle against tsarism the people 
knew definitely that they strove for the substitution of Euro¬ 
pean forms for Asiatic, of Constitutionalism for Absolutism. 
But after 1905 official Russia presented a Janus. On the one 
hand a bicameral parliament, on the other a tsar continuing to 
bear the title of “Autocrat of all the Russias.” On the one 
hand an alleged legislative body, on the other an irresponsible 
ministry arrogantly playing with the Duma and with the Coun¬ 
cil of State as with pawns. Partial abolition of the censorship, 
and multiplied penalties on editors and publishers, confiscations 
of newspapers, magazines and books. Academic freedom, and 
wholesale dismissals of deans and professors from the Univer¬ 
sity of Moscow and from the Kiev Politechnicum, and their re¬ 
placement by “desirables,” in “administrative order.” “Con¬ 
stitutionalism,” and arbitrary arrests, trials, executions, on an 
unprecedented scale, the prisons and places of exile overfilled 
with political “offenders.” 8 The Government did not scruple 
about supporting reactionary organizations responsible for the 

8 For names and figures, see Russia under Nicolas II, pp. 329-331. 


310 Leonid Andreyev 

assassination of liberal members of the Duma, about organiz¬ 
ing and condoning massacres of Jews, about employing in the 
revolutionary parties agents provocateurs who performed the 
double function of betraying their comrades and of dynamiting 
official dignitaries. The atmosphere was saturated with bru¬ 
tality, hypocrisy, perversity. Literature became flooded with 
pornography. Obscenity permeated the popular stage. Rough 
sports began to appeal to college youths, replacing their former 
idealistic predilections. Rude force, the might of the fist, dom¬ 
inated the hour. At the same time numerous religious fads 
reigned in salons and in saloons, from esoteric mysticism to 
vulgar Rasputinism. It seemed as if the public, tired of sacri¬ 
fices and of thwarted idealism, had thrown itself with aban¬ 
don in an opposite direction—carnal self-gratification and 
solipsism. 

With these conditions as a background, Andreyev’s realistic, 
or psycho-realistic, plays, Professor Storitsyn, Katherina Ivan¬ 
ovna, and Thou Shalt Not Kill may be regarded as symboliza¬ 
tions of contemporary moods and ailments, or rather of one 
general phenomenon—life’s vulgar pettiness. The loneliness, 
the insecurity, the impotence of the beautiful and noble, amidst 
the crude surroundings of modern materialism, is the tragedy 
of Professor Storitsyn and the tragedy of Katherina Ivanovna. 
The former dies from a broken heart, unable to survive life’s 
coarseness. The latter is infected with life’s coarseness, and 
becomes a moral ruin. In either case it is the vulgar and the 
base that triumph, that survive as the fittest. How weak 
sounds the voice of the aesthetic Professor! 

I am a modest, quiet Russian, born with an enormous, and apparently 
fortuitous, need of beauty, of a beautiful, meaningful life. Every one 
has his hangman—my hangmen are the coarseness of our life, its ugliness, 
its meanness . 9 

The still, small voice of Storitsyn is drowned by the husky 
shouts of his “hangman,” Savvich, who demoralizes the Pro¬ 
fessor’s home and bullies the gentle worshipper of beauty. 

8 In Earth ( Zemlya ), Miscellany— XI, p. 40. Moscow, 1913. 


Recapitulations 3 11 

Storitsyn is crushed when he is forcibly drawn from his heights 
to realize the mire surrounding him. In vain does he endeavor 
to ignore the intimate relations between his wife and the coarse 
Savvich. The filth accumulates, and bespatters him even in 
his retreat. Savvich breaks into his study, reprimands him for 
scolding his wife, the woman who was once his ideal of pure 
beauty, and who is now “a lady in a stiff corset, with powder 
on her beet-like face, with a bosom that might nurse thousands 
of infants, thousands of martyrs and heroes, but which nour¬ 
ishes only Savvich.” Savvich even threatens to beat him, 
Storitsyn, an academic luminary, the idol of ecstatic audiences. 
Why not? Savvich is proud of his muscular strength, and phys¬ 
ical force is what counts most these days. It is not only Sav¬ 
vich, an outsider, an impudent intruder, who thrusts his dirty 
boot into the Professor’s soul: even his best friend, the sol¬ 
dierly Dr. Telemakhov, and his own son, Volodya, rack his fine 
mind with their rude manners, when they administer a well- 
deserved thrashing to the impossible Savvich. And a potential 
Savvich appears in his own family, in the person of his younger 
son, Sergey, who steals and sells his father’s books, drinks and 
smokes, “lives with” a classmate, a high-school girl, prides him¬ 
self on being a lowbrow, respects a man of “character,” like 
Savvich, and chides his father for carrying a trifling life- 
insurance policy of only ten thousand rubles. 

Storitsyn: ... You are my flesh and blood, my own son . . . But 
where am I to be found in this creature? Stay, stay, it is as though I 
were seeing your face for the first time ... sit still, sit still, don t be 
embarrassed. So then, this thing here, this flat thing, receding, squeezed 
in at the temples, is your forehead, my son’s forehead? Strange! And 
whence comes to you this low, brutal jaw . . . you probably can bite 
through very thick bones, yes? 

Sergey: I don’t care. 

Storitsyn: And whence come these young but already dull and sul¬ 
len eyes—such sullen eyes! And then this little parting over your 
forehead ... an interesting parting. And this strange, cheap per¬ 
fume. . . . 10 


10 Ibid., p. 62. 


312 Leonid Andreyev 

It is not the individual, Savvich, that is alarming: it is Sav- 
vichism, the vulgarization of all life, that menaces the few fine 
minds still extant to-day. Pre-war life in Russia if only in 
Russia—presents an arena where the victors are invariably bul¬ 
lies, knaves, “practical characters.” To the vulgar, the un¬ 
scrupulous, belong the spoils. To the unscrupulous, in partic¬ 
ular. The frankly coarse and loudly rude are sufficiently con¬ 
spicuous to be shunned, but life is infested with unscrupulous 
parasites whose very power consists in their smallness, pettiness, 
slickness, adaptability, aptness to sneak in through the tiniest 
crack and settle on you and yours. Such a pest is Mentikov, in 
Katherina Ivanovna. He is openly despised by all, yet he is 
ubiquitous; he unfailingly attends exclusive gatherings and ar¬ 
tistic parties, lives on his numerous acquaintances, who do not 
know how to get rid of him, and even succeeds in befouling and 
utterly ruining Katherina Ivanovna, once a noble and beautiful 
soul. Her husband remarks that while he is not afraid of bat¬ 
tling with strong enemies because they employ equal weapons, 
he finds himself absolutely powerless in face of an unscrupulous 
nonentity: 

He is so deadly insignificant . . . Like a louse, he exists only because 
of our own uncleanliness ... He crawls as long as we let him crawl, 
and should we block his way, he will crawl in a different direction. He 
exists always, always on the qui vive, ever ready. Why, one is likely to 
“catch” him, as one catches an infection, on the street car . 11 

Mentikovs breed where they meet with no strong resistance, 
they thrive in insanitary places; this is what is tragic. Kathe¬ 
rina Ivanovna is dragged down lower and lower, finding no one 
strong enough to hold her back, to lift her from the mire. She 
is surrounded with the cream of the nation: her husband is a 

11 In Wild-Rose Almanacs, No. 19, PP- 179-180. Petrograd, 1913. Cf. Nietz¬ 
sche’s words on pettiness: “Das schlimmste aber sind die kleinen Gedanken. 
Wahrlich, besser noch bos gethan, als klein gedacht! . . . Wie ein Geschwur 1st 
die bose Tat: sie juckt und kratzt und bricht heraus,—sie redet ehrlich. ‘Siehe, 
ich bin Krankheit’—so redet die bose Tat; das ist ihre Ehrlichkeit. Aber dem 
Pilze gleich ist der kleine Gedanke: er kriecht und duckt sich und will nir- 
gendswo sein—bis der ganze Leib morsch und welk ist vor kleinen Pilzen.”— Also 
sfrach Zarathustra: “Von den Mitleidigen,” p. 129 ( Werke—VIl ). 


Recapitulations 313 

prominent member of the Duma, their friends are from the in¬ 
tellectual aristocracy, their environment artistic—yet she suf¬ 
focates in emptiness. Andreyev shows the moral bankruptcy of 
Russia’s intellectuals. They are devoid of chivalry, they lack 
fastidiousness, they have cheapened life’s values. They all tol¬ 
erate Mentikov, though he steals their wives and their draw¬ 
ings: they are avowed compromisers. No wonder Mentikov 
has the nerve to treat Katherina Ivanovna’s husband with a 
cigarette, and to offer a Bruderschaft-drink to all these respect¬ 
able intellectuals. They observe the decaying process of Kath¬ 
erina Ivanovna, they watch her sink ever deeper, some of them 
make use of her weakness and accessibility, but not one of them 
possesses moral stamina to save her, to bring her back to her 
exalted place from which she once slipped. The presentation 
of this play aroused heated comments among the Russian intel¬ 
lectuals, some of these comments referring to the general empti¬ 
ness and pettiness of their life during the Duma years. Alex¬ 
ander Benois, a leading critic and painter, wrote: 

Somehow the play stirs our dark despair, our helpless grief. Katherina 
Ivanovna says that they have “killed her soul,” but is our common soul 
sufficiently alive to sympathize with others’ woe? Do we not at these 
terrible words turn involuntarily to ourselves, not individually, but to 
the self of all of us taken together, and do we not perceive that where 
we have supposed the existence of a soul, there is only the abomination of 
desolation? This [the play] is the reflection of our life, this is our spir¬ 
itual emptiness gazing with dead eyes out of the mirror . 12 

In Thou Shalt Not Kill the central figure is Yakov, the hand¬ 
some janitor who kills the tottering old eccentric landlord. He 
kills only to please his mistress, the housekeeper, who is heir to 
the master of the house. The act is committed neither from 
hatred or malice, nor from avariciousness, not even from love 
for his mistress. Yakov is overflowing with energy. He does 
not utilize it, but squanders it on petty things, just to oblige 
others. Yakov is awfully good-natured, he does not refuse 
himself to any of the numerous women who are fond of him. 

12 in Speech, No. 129, 1913. See supra, p. 124. 


314 Leonid Andreyev 

And he kills just to oblige. He recognizes no law, neither that 
of God nor that of the Senate. It is this primitive nihilism 
of the Russian people that Andreyev probably intends to depict. 
The time of the idealization of the people has passed. It has 
become evident that illiterate Russia is under the “dominion of 
darkness,” as Tolstoy has named his terrible play based on vil¬ 
lage life. The enormous stored-up power of Yakov requires 
an outlet. But unless Yakov be imbued with some ideas, with 
some knowledge, his good nature may work havoc when made 
use of by destructive or petty forces. It is a terrible abyss, 
this nihilistic emptiness of the elemental Yakov, more terrible, 
indeed, than the emptiness of the upper layers of society, the 
intellectuals, because it is elemental and chaotic, capable of sub¬ 
verting and destroying and annihilating for no other reason 
than the need of an outlet. Perhaps it is this Yakov-spint 
which has inspired the futuristic sculptor, the author of the mon¬ 
ument to Michael Bakunin, recently erected in Moscow. The 
reproduction of the monument presents a chaotic mass of debris 
looming upward, with the inscription of Bakunin’s words: 
“The spirit of destruction is the creative spirit.” 13 

The impotence of Storitsyn’s craving after beauty, in face 
of triumphant vulgarity; the spiritual wilderness among the 
Russian Intelligentsia, who through their opportunism and pas¬ 
sivity breed legalistic sophists and Mentikovs; the misplaced 
and misused strength of Yakov—the common people—these are 
fragmentary motives of Andreyev’s Weltanschauung already 
familiar to us. The war seemed to have transformed Andre¬ 
yev’s outlook, to have generated in him a strong faith in man. 
But this change was only on the surface, in his journalistic ut- 
terings and such semi-journalistic productions as King, Law, 
Liberty. Andreyev tried to drown his never slumbering doubts 
in the turmoil of the war, to silence his persistent inner No with 
a violent, blatant Yes. Neither his bombastic war stuff, nor 
such popular trifles written during the war as Youth, Dear 
Phantoms, Requiem (of these he speaks with contempt in his 

is The reproduction appeared in Konstantin Umansky’s Die Neue Kunst in Rut¬ 
land, p. 31. Potsdam, 1920. 


Recapitulations Z l 5 

diary and in his letters to Goloushev and to Nemirovich- 
Danchenko), expressed his true self. For though he was many¬ 
voiced and composed of several contradictory selves, his genu¬ 
ine and dominating self was essentially negative. His actual 
attitude to mankind, fragmentarily reflected in the four plays 
discussed in the preceding pages of this chapter, was stated more 
fully and, one may say, summarily, in He Who Gets Slapped, 
presented on the stage of the Moscow Dramatic Theatre in 
1915. 

In this drama life is a grotesque misplacement of forces and 
faculties. Intellect, in the person of a celebrated luminary, dis¬ 
gusted with the surrounding stupidity, treachery and vulgarity, 
descends into a circus, to serve as a clown. He leaves his great 
name behind him, becomes known as He (the Russian word 
“tot” means “that one”), and makes the audience roar with 
laughter at the sight of him receiving innumerable slaps from 
his fellow clowns. A bizarre revenge, this contemplation of 
men gaffawing at the spectacle of intellect reduced to a clown 
who submits placidly to the slaps of professional jesters. “He” 
prefers this open mockery and humiliation to the treatment 
great minds are given “out there,” where his own, genuine ideas 
are successful only after they have been stolen by a popularizer 
and rehashed into a vulgar concoction for the crowd. To the 
Prince, the man who has taken possession of his wife and his 
thoughts, and whose uneasy conscience prompts him to come to 
the circus and hold discourse with his master-victim, He says: 

You—you great profaner!—you have made my ideas accessible even to 
horses. With the skill of a great profaner, of a costumer of ideas, you 
have arrayed my Apollo as a barber, you have handed my Venus a yellow 
ticket, to my radiant hero you have appended the ears of an ass, and lo, 
your career is made, as Jackson [the chief clown] says. And wherever 
I go, the whole street grimaces at me with thousands of faces, in which— 
what mockery!—I recognize the features of my own children. . . , 14 

i*He Who Gets Slapped {Tot, kto poluchayet poshchichiny) , pp. 52, 53. (Lady- 
schnikow, Berlin, undated.) One recalls Nietzsche’s words: . . . “meine Lehre 
ist in Gefahr, Unkrauten will Weizen heissen! Meine Feinde sind machtig 
worden und haben raeiner Lehre Bildniss entstellt, also, dass meine Liebsten sich 
der Gaben schamen mussen, die ich ihnen gab "—Also sprach Zarathustra: “Da* 
Kind mit dem Spiegel,” p. 120 {Werke — FII). 


3 i6 Leonid Andreyev 

But the vulgarizer is not satisfied with being the “flat 
shadow” 15 of “He,” reaping success and fame by means of the 
borrowed ideas. Far from being grateful to the man respon¬ 
sible for his prosperity, he hates him, because he is aware of his 
superiority, of his dominating personality which looms from 
behind all the stolen and popularized editions of his thoughts. 
Only the death of the master will reconcile and appease his “flat 
shadow.” But no— 


. you are not my shadow [says “He”], I was mistaken. You are the 
crowd. While living a life imbued by me, you hate me. While breath¬ 
ing my breath, you are choking with malice. Yet while choking with 
malice, while hating and despising me, you drag yourself at the tail of 
my ideas . . . but advancing hindside forward, advancing hindside for¬ 
ward, comrade ! 16 


“He,” intellect profaned and abused by the crowd, is not 
the only tragic character in the drama, though the most obvious 
one. There is Consuella, the bareback rider, the alleged 
daughter of a dubious count, pretty of face but ignorant, illiter¬ 
ate, and desperately naive. “He” discovers under her ordinary 
husk a sleeping beauty, a goddess born out of the sea foam, who 
has forgotten her native atmosphere, asleep among^ wretched 
mortals. Consuella is stirred by the words of “He,” who at¬ 
tempts to awaken her, to lift her above her sordid surroundings, 
but she is unable to recall clearly her divine origin, and is about 
to plunge blindly into the net of the spider—to marry the Baron, 
the incarnation of self-confident vulgarity. “He,” who has de¬ 
liberately placed himself in a grotesque position, cannot endure 
the gross burlesque which is to be enacted behind the circus 
scenes, and he rescues Consuella by sharing with her a glass of 
poisoned wine. For once the all-powerful, never-failing spider- 
vulgarity is cheated out of a prospective victim. But the cir¬ 
cus goes on, the crowd continues to be amused by misplaced tal- 


15 Zarathustra, too, was pursued by his “shadow,” h.s im.tator follower and 
simplifier, to whom the gist of his master’s teaching consisted of Nichts istwahr, 
alles ist erlaubt.”— Ibid., “Der Schatten,” p. 395 «• I" a similar sense, Smerdyakov 
acted as the shadow of Ivan Karamazov, in Dostoyevsky’s novel. 

Act III, p. 54. 


Recapitulations 3 1 7 

ent and by misused force, by caged lions and submissive tigers, 
by intellect become clown, by Bezano—a young god turned cir¬ 
cus rider, by Zinida—surcharged with power and passion which 
she spends in taming and distorting wild beasts. 17 

Our attention need not be detained long by The JValtz of the 
Dogs, a play which harmonizes with Andreyev’s mood during 
this last period, permeated as it is with black sadness. Although 
the author regards the play as “remarkable! One of the teeth 
in his lugubrious crown, a black dent,” 18 one has difficulty in 
sharing his enthusiasm. Andreyev tries to express the depth of 
the tragedy of solitude—in fact he gives the play the subtitle of 
“a poem of solitude.” This old motive of his, which we have 
discussed in the chapter on his early writings, increased in in¬ 
tensity toward the end of Andreyev’s life, owing to his personal 
experience. We may understand therefore why this play pos¬ 
sessed an intimate value for its author, but the very fact that he 
found himself obliged to defend it, to battle for it, to explain 

17 Andreyev’s personal view of this play was expressed in a letter to Mile. Pole- 
vitsky, the first Consuella at the Dramatic Theatre. A few extracts from this 
letter are given below: 

First of all, Consuella must be in appearance a goddess, according to the exact 
laws of classic beauty. Tall and graceful, with features regular and severe, soft¬ 
ened by the expression of an almost childlike naivete and charm. Everything 
about her which savors of the circus and of the commonplace, from her costume 
to her language and somewhat vulgar manners, is only on the surface, external. 
One of the most important tasks of the player and of the director, is to show the 
actual beneath the tinsel of a bareback rider and acrobat. In her character, her 
psyche, Consuella is lofty, pure, and unconsciously tragic. The latter is very im¬ 
portant. It is not the extraneous dramatism of the voluptuous Zinida, but the deep 
and genuine tragicness created by the contradiction between Consuella’s divine es¬ 
sence and her external, accidental expression. 

She is a captive in life, she is enslaved by oppressive reality, by the power of 
material things, and she suffers. Before the advent of “He,” she is asleep, as it 
were; he awakens her. That moment, when she tries to recall her home—the 
heaven, and cannot, is replete with great sorrow for her. . . . 

There is nothing easier than a drama in which everything is on the surface- 
in movements, shouts, tears, wails, in the clear visibility of dramatic collisions. 
But great is the difficulty of that role in which the whole tragedy is outwardly 
based on half-tones, on a sigh, on an expression of sadness in one’s face or eyes, 
when the inner state of mind is hidden even from the person who experiences it. 

. . . this fairy-tale play tells of beautiful gods tormented bv earthly violence, 
wandering in the labyrinth of man’s petty affairs and heavy passions.—From his 
letter addressed to Elena Alexeyevna [Polevitskaya], September, 1915. 

18 Letter to Goloushev, October, 1916. 


318 Leonid Andreyev 

and comment, to exhort in its favor even such a keen appre- 
ciator as Nemirovich-Danchenko, shows that its intrinsic and 
universal value is dubious. He endeavors to convince Dan¬ 
chenko of the serious importance of the “poem,” of its posses¬ 
sion of “the most hidden and cruel sense of tragedy, which de¬ 
nies the meaning and reason of man’s existence,” through “com¬ 
paring the world and mankind to dancing dogs which some one 
is pulling by a cord and tempting with a lump of sugar.” 19 
Any one trained in reading and interpreting Andreyev cannot 
fail to grasp this underlying idea in The Waltz of the Dogs, 
but the idea remains dangling in the air, unattached to the 
ground, disembodied. From the very beginning of the play to 
its end, the reader, like the dogs in the waltz, is being pulled by 
a string. The author attempts to hypnotize him, and he shouts 
into his ear with monotonous repetition that he is witnessing a 
tragic performance. The actors tell us that the new residence 
of Henry Tille has an atmosphere of crime, that the song of the 
plasterers expresses Russian sadness, that they are afraid, that 
they are oppressed with solitude, that they are on the verge of in¬ 
sanity. The character of Henry Tille, the chief personage of 
the play, is drawn with too obvious, bold strokes, with an ex¬ 
aggerated emphasis on his preciseness and fondness for mathe¬ 
matical figures, deviced for the purpose of making his smashed 
plans and thwarted expectations appear in high relief. The 
reader is aware of the author’s efforts, and is therefore on the 
qui vive, on the defensive against being hypnotized. The 
Waltz of the Dogs, with its many excellences (such as the char¬ 
acter of Alexandrov, or as the entire third act), is one of An¬ 
dreyev’s rare failures to capture the reader and persuade him 
of the inner reality of the world presented to him. It is not 
impossible that the author may be more successful with the 
spectator. Intelligent actors may succeed in conveying the at¬ 
mosphere of marionettes in The Waltz of the Dogs, not so 
much through the verbal medium, as through other histrionic 
means. This hypothesis has as yet had no chance to be tested. 

19 From a letter dated September, X916. 


Recapitulations 319 

Far more successful than The Waltz of the Dogs, was An¬ 
dreyev’s dramatic experiment in his tragedy, Samson Enchained 
(still unpublished). Here, as in Professor Storitsyn, in Rath - 
erina Ivanovna f in He Who Gets Slapped, in The Waltz of the 
Dogs , the author attempts a “psycho-realistic” treatment of the 
subject. Instead of leading up to a climactic action, in the ordi¬ 
nary theatrical fashion, he begins his dramas after the external 
denouement has taken place. Convinced that the “new theatre” 
ought to leave exterior action to the cinematograph, and strive 
for an artistic expression of man’s inner experiences, 20 Andreyev 
reveals the drama of Storitsyn, displayed amidst an environment 
already corrupted, the drama of Katherina Ivanovna, taking 
place after her husband’s attempt to shoot her, the drama of 
“He,” evolving after his catastrophic collision with life “out 
there,” the drama of Henry Tille, following his betrayal by his 
betrothed, and the drama of Samson as it develops subsequent 
to his being captured, blinded, and chained by the Philistines. 
The problem is to construct the psychic drama on a realistic 
basis, to present the soul-world of the character not as a dis¬ 
embodied abstraction, but as a concrete reality comprehensible 
to “Schopenhauer and his cook.” Unlike The Waltz of the 
Dogs, Samson Enchained proves Andreyev’s ability to cope with 
this difficult problem. In a letter, presumably to Nemirovich- 
Danchenko (undated), he gives an interesting estimate of his 
Samson: 

. . . Pushkin, like Shakespeare, is not a psychologist. That which we 
regard as Psyche, is an inseparable combination of spirit and body; in 
Pushkin and Shakespeare the spirit exists without a body. This lends the 
aspect of divinity to Pushkin’s heroes, but it destroys utterly our precious 
Psyche. Neither Mozart nor Salieri [in Pushkin’s Mozart and Salieri ], 
nor even Don Juan [in Pushkin’s drama of that name], possesses a body. 
However wild it may sound, Don Juan lacks the ordinary mark of man¬ 
hood—Paganini without his violin! In Pushkin we find not feelings, but 
Platonic ideas of feelings; not love and envy and fear, but the ideas of 
love, envy, fear. . . . Samson Enchained presents an experiment in psy- 

28 Letters on the Theatre . Supra, p. 119 ff. 


320 Leonid Andreyev 

chologic tragedy, and an experiment which has succeeded. The spirit 
remains on a tragic elevation, yet it does not depart from the body, is 
merged with it as a living unity. The feelings, too, are given as such, 
not in their idea, not in a divine abstraction beyond time. Samson is a 
prophet who both performs the functions of nature and converses with 
God. Here the methods of truth and inner experiences, that is, the psy¬ 
chologic approach, may achieve a full, perhaps an unprecedented, triumph. 

Indeed, Andreyev succeeds in blending the exotic historical 
exterior of the play with the inner, psychic tragedy of its hero. 
We are transported without effort into the time and place of 
the drama, we visualize the gorgeous festivities on the streets 
of Askalon, the splendor of Delilah’s palace and of the temple 
of Dagon; and our ear drinks in the marvelous biblical language, 
which surpasses even Judas Iscariot in its virile simplicity and 
richness of images. Against this convincing background looms 
the gigantic figure of Samson, blind and fettered but still inspir¬ 
ing awe in his captors. The drama of Samson is a familiar 
Andreyev motive—man’s inner conflict of opposing wills and 
contradictory selves, the struggle between the forces of good 
and evil, of nobility and baseness, of altruism and selfishness. 
Samson’s chains are not those put on him by the Philistines, but 
the chains of his battling impulses. He is a huge animal, pas¬ 
sionately addicted to carnal pleasures, but at the same time he 
is a chosen instrument of God, for the fulfillment of His will. 
Dark are the ways of Providence, and Samson cannot under¬ 
stand why he, such an unworthy vessel, has been selected to 
contain the voice of God. He groans under the burden of his 
mission, he rebels against his Sender, he craves quiescence. 
Captured during one of those moments when his carnal self 
prevails, blinded, beaten, humiliated, thrown into a filthy dun¬ 
geon and cowed into submission, Samson is tempted to reconcile 
himself to his new position. The lot of a slave is so light, so 
care-free; Samson asks for nothing more than a hovel and a 
woman—“any kind of a woman: for my eyes see naught.” We 
may recall that the idea of freeing oneself from responsibility 
through renouncing one’s noble impulses and merging with the 
base and lowly has been suggested by Andreyev on several oc- 


Recapitu lations 321 

casions. 21 But Samson is not permitted to find rest and peace 
in the slough of irresponsible vegetation. He is torn between 
calls and allurements. Delilah’s brothers believe in Samson’s 
divine power, and they desire to use this power for the aggran¬ 
dizement of Philistia. Knowing of Samson’s weakness for 
earthly pleasures, they release him from his dungeon, array him 
in royal garments, and bring him to the palace of Delilah, 
where he feasts on wine and song and Delilah’s love. The 
judge and champion of Israel succumbs to the call of his carnal 
self. He spurns with contempt the girl of Judea, who comes 
to exhort him, to entreat him in the name of suffering Israel, to 
abuse and curse him for having sold himself to the enemies of 
his people. Samson declares his hatred for Judea, the wretched 
land of an austere God and a joyless religion. He refuses to 
be a slave to the Jewish God. He is free. But can the arrow 
rebel against the archer? In the desert, whither the Philistine 
nobles take him on a lion hunt, Samson shakes off the narcotic 
influence of Delilah’s arms, wine and perfume. He listens to 
the wail of the wind, to the roar of the lion, he perceives the 
voice of God—and submits to it. The chains of the divine 
will prove stronger than those of woman’s arms, of fragrant 
wine, of splendid garments, of jingling gold. At the Dagon 
festival Samson is stirred by the humiliations hurled at his na¬ 
tion and at his God, he becomes imbued with his former strength 
of will, he wills the destruction of his enemies, and proves vic¬ 
torious. Under the debris of the temple he frees himself of 
his unworthy instincts, even as Duke Lorenzo purges his heart 
in the fire of his Castle. 

Samson Enchained is Andreyev’s dramatic masterpiece. It 
is free from the stylistic eclecticism of The Life of Man and 
Anathema, from the baffling obscurities of The Black Maskers 
and The Ocean, from the obvious allegory present in most of 

21 For example, in his review of Ibsen’s Enemy of the People, where he tells of 
his momentary desire to climb to the seat of the drozhki driver and become like 
him; in Thought, where Dr. Kerzhentsev dreams of joining the brotherhood of 
bandits; in Darkness, where the revolutionist throws in his lot with the riffraff; 
in Professor Storitsyn, where Storitsyn asks his brutish son for vodka, and requests 
him to take him to “bad places”; in Sashka Zhegulev, where the pure and noble 
Sasha descends to a life of robbery and murder, to appease the “voices.” 


322 Leonid Andreyev 

his plays {He Who Gets Slapped included), it is free needless 
to say—from the evident laboriousness of The Waltz of the 
Dogs. In its stylistic unity and clarity, and in its masterful 
delineation of character, this tragedy ranks with Professor Stor - 
itsyn, Katherina Ivanovna, and Thou Shalt Not Kill , but it 
surpasses these in the titanic grandeur of its scope, in its Attic 
majesty. 22 Samson Enchained is Andreyev’s unique triumph 
as an ambitious attempt splendidly executed. Indeed, it pre¬ 
sents the climactic peak in Andreyev’s art, to be followed by 
an indubitable decline. It may be considered, then, as his swan 
song. 

A striking proof of this decline is given by Andreyev’s last 
artistic effort, Satan's Diary. It was published posthumously, 
and one is inclined to doubt whether the author would have 
approved of the book’s appearance in its present form. It 
impresses the reader as slipshod and incomplete. 23 At all 
events, the story produces a painful effect on one accustomed 
to Andreyev’s depth and brilliance, as though one beheld a 
costly vase with a crack across its body. The author has lost 
his mastery over the subject matter, his sense of proportion, his 
subtlety, his felicity of expression. Aware of his failing, he 
employs a subterfuge, making Satan blame the human tongue 
for its inability to express complex ideas. 24 The Satan proves, 
on the whole, a poor spokesman for Andreyev, when compared 
with such preceding spokesmen as Kerzhentsev, Savva, Judas, 
Anathema, Lorenzo and others. The fault, of course, is not 
with Satan, but with the disintegration of his creator’s talent. 
The author is unable to cope with a plot which in his normal 
days would lie precisely within his metier—witness Anathema. 
His Satan enters the body of Mr. Wandergood, a multimillion¬ 
aire packer from Illinois, with the intention of amusing himself 
by “playing a part” as a human being. In the course of a few 
weeks his superior mind and infernal wisdom collapse before hu¬ 
man cunning and treachery. A human adventurer “plays his 

22 In his letter quoted on p. 129 f., Andreyev wrote that Fyodor Sologub re¬ 
garded Samson as a restoration of the Greek tragedy. 

28 See Roerich’s statement, supra, p. 162. 

24 Cf. pp. 9, 25, in Satan’s Diary (Dnevnik Satany ), Helsingfors, 1921. 


Recapitulations 323 

part” more cleverly than Satan, exploits the latter’s sentiments 
and emotions, inveigles him into falling in love with an alleged 
saintly virgin who turns out to be a depraved harlot, finally 
robs him of all his millions, and kicks him out of his own home. 
What an excellent subject for the author of Judas, Anathema, 
My Memoirs, He Who Gets Slapped. But Andreyev in the 
year 1919 resembles a bird whose wings have been pinioned. 
Instead of ranking with Andreyev’s artistic productions, Satan } s 
Diary comes closer to a wordy feuilleton, voicing in an obvious 
manner its author’s disgust with the world and contempt for the 
human race. 

Considered in this light, Satan } s Diary forms a characteristic 
close to Andreyev’s life and career. In the unevenly and nerv¬ 
ously told story of a devil hoodwinked and surpassed by human 
deviltry one visualizes the pale face of the author in his last 
days, full of pain and humiliation. In cold and inhospitable 
Finland, cut off from Russia, living in solitude and privation, 
condemned by his Red enemies, and abandoned by his White 
“friends,” Leonid Andreyev reaches the stage of complete dis¬ 
illusionment. He has spent forty-eight years on this earth, 
years of restless seeking, of futile attempts at solving life’s 
riddle, in vain efforts to reconcile contradictions, to find a pacify¬ 
ing and harmonizing synthesis. Time and again he has been 
tempted by life—Delilah—to acquiesce, to bow down to earthly 
considerations (to write a popular play, a “best seller,” to edit 
a patriotic daily), to soften his keen vision by rosy spectacles, to 
escape from reality into the mist of illusions. But, like Samson, 
he has been impelled to tear off the veil of Maja, and, hearkening 
to the voice of God, to shake the pillars of Philistia’s strong¬ 
hold, to smash and deny and destroy—and to perish amidst the 
ruins. 







BIBLIOGRAPHY 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

A. A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF ANDREYEV’S WORKS 


Based largely on his Collected Works, in eight volumes, given as a 
premium to the magazine, The Field (Niva), for 1913, an d on hi s Col¬ 
lected Works, in sixteen volumes, between 1910-1915, published by 
Enlightenment (Prosveshcheniye) , Petrograd, (volumes I-XIII), by the 
Moscow Publication House ( Moskovskoye Knigoizdatelstvo) , Moscow 
(volume XIV), by the Wild Rose (Shipovnik) , Petrograd (volume XV), 
and by the Writers' Publication House ( Knigoizdatelstvo Pisateley ), Mos¬ 
cow (volume XVI). 

A question mark (?) appears after writings the year of whose com¬ 
position is either unstated or uncertain. 

An asterisk (*) denotes works which have been translated into English. 

A cross ( x ) precedes those works which are red-penciled in Andreyev’s 
personal set of the Field edition, with the following explanation written 
with his own hand in the last volume: “The red marks works which I 
should include in a posthumous edition of my collected writings.” One 
should observe that Andreyev wrote this before the publication of his 
Thou Shalt Not Kill, and of other works published after 1913. 

1897-1903. Journalistic articles, sketches and reviews, which appeared 
largely in the Moscow Courier. Most of these were reprinted 
in volume I of his Works, in the Enlightenment edition. 

1898. * Bargamot and Garaska.—Defense.—From the Life of Cap¬ 
tain Kablukov.—Young Men. 

1899. His First Fee.—* A Friend.—* Peter in the Country.—Valia.— 
In Passing.—* Little Angel.—At the Window.—* x The Grand 
Slam. 

1900. * x The Lie.— x On the River.—Mother.— 1 The Story of 
Sergey Petrovich.—* Splendid is the Life of the Resuscitated.— 
A Holiday.—* x Silence.—Into the Dark Faraway. 

1901. * Laughter.—The Present.— x Once There Lived.—* Snapper. 
—The Book.—* x The Wall.—* The Tocsin.—An Incident.— 
* In the Basement. 

1902. In Spring.— x The Abyss.—* The City.—* x Thought.—* x An 

327 - 


328 Leonid Andreyev 

Original Person.—* The Foreigner.— 1 In Fog.—* A Robbery 
Planned. 

1903. * From My Life (autobiographical sketch).—* The Marseil¬ 
laise.—Promises of Spring.—* At the Station. * x Ben Tobit. 
—* x Life of Father Vasily Fiveysky. 

1904. There Is No Forgiveness.—The Thief.— x Phantoms.—* x The 
Red Laugh. 

1905. * x The Governor.—* x Thus It Was.—* To the Stars (a 
play). 

1906. * x Lazarus.—Plays: * x Savva.—* x The Life of Man. 

1907. * x Judas Iscariot and Others.— x Darkness. The Curse of the 

Beast.—* x Tsar Hunger (a play).—Tales Not Quite for Chil¬ 
dren. 

1908. Ivan Ivanovich.—* x My Memoirs (Marginal note by An¬ 
dreyev: “My best story”).—* x The Seven That Were 

Hanged.—* From the Story Which Will Never Be Finished.— 

* Love, Faith, and Hope.— x Christians.—The Oath. Stop 

Thief.—The Giant.—Plays: * Death of Man (a variant of the 
last act of The Life of Man).—* x The Black Maskers.— 
x Days of Our Life.—* x Love for Your Neighbor.—The Bat. 

1909. x He.— x Son of Man.—Plays: * x Anathema.—Anfisa. 

1910. x Sincere Laughter.—* x Day of Wrath.—* The Serpent’s 
Story.—Plays: Gaudeamus. 

1911. Gulliver’s Death.— x Peace.— x Ipatov.—* x A Flower under 
Foot.— x Sashka Zhegulev.—* x The Ocean (a play). 

1912. Carelessness (?).— x Rules for Good Deeds.—*A letter on 
the Theatre.—Administrative Ecstasy (?).—A Cinemato¬ 
graphic Story about Luckless John (?).—Plays: Honor. 

* x The Pretty Sabine Women.— x Professor Storitsyn.—* x Kath- 
erina Ivanovna. 

1913. * Letters on the Theatre (including the first Letter).— 
Thou Shalt Not Kill (a play). 

1914. The Flight.—Nights.—Resurrection.—The End of John the 
Preacher.—Herman and Martha.—The Bearers of Horns.— 
The Return.—Plays: Thought.—* An Event.—The Parrot— 
* King, Law, Liberty.—Youth. 

1915. * War’s Burden (a play). * He Who Gets Slapped. 

1916. Dear Phantoms (a play). 

1917. Requiem (a play). 

In 1914 Andreyev wrote two plays: * Samson Enchained, and * The 


Bibliography 329 

Waltz of the Dogs. The former is still unpublished; the latter was 
printed in the tenth issue of the Paris monthly, Contemporary Annals , for 
the year 1922. Two of Andreyev’s unfinished works, A Conversation in 
the Night, and * Satan’s Diary, were published in Helsingfors, Finland, 
in 1921 (Biblion Company). Satan’s Diary appeared in its English ver¬ 
sion in 1920, in New York (Boni & Liveright) and Samson Enchained, in 
1923 (Brentano). 

This list does not include Andreyev’s contributions to the daily press 
before and during the war and the revolution. 


B. ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF ANDREYEV’S WRITINGS 

When the translator’s title is too remote from the original title, the 
literal translation of the latter is given in parenthesis. 

Andreyev on the Modern Theatre. Tr. by Manart Kippen. New 
York Times October 5, 1919, IV, 3: 1. 

Andreyev on Motion Pictures. Tr. by Manart Kippen. New York 
Times October 19, 1919, VIII, 5: 1. 

(The two preceding articles were translated—with excisions—from 
Andreyev’s Letters on the Theatre.) 

Anathema. Tr. by H. Bernstein. New York, 1910 (Macmillan). 
Burglar, The (A Robbery Planned). Tr. by Thomas Seltzer. 
Current Literature, July, 1905, PP* 109-m. 

Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days (War’s Burden). 
Tr. by H. Bernstein. New York, 1917 (Knopf). 

Crushed Flower, The. Includes also: A Story Which Will Never be 
Finished; On the Day of Crucifixion (Ben Tobit) ; The Serpent’s Story; 
Love, Faith, and Hope; The Ocean; Judas Iscariot and Others; The 
Man Who Found the Truth (My Memoirs). Tr. by H. Bernstein. 
New York, 1916 (Knopf). 

Dear Departing, The. See “Love to Your Neighbor.” 

Dilemma, A (Thought). Tr. by J. Cournos. Philadelphia, 1910 
(Brown Brothers). 

Donkeys. Tr. by H. Bernstein. The Smart Set , December, 1922, pp. 
123-129. 

Fallen Angels. Tr. by S. Hoffman. The English Review, January, 
1914, pp. 181-185. 

Governor, His Excellency, The. Harper s Weekly, February 9-March 
2 , 1917, PP- 196-198, 236-239, 270-273, 310-313. 


330 Leonid Andreyev 

He Who Gets Slapped. Tr. by Gregory Zilboorg. The Dial, March, 
1921, pp. 250-300. Separately published by Brentano. 

Incident, An (An Event). Tr. by L. Pasvolsky. Poet Lore, No. 


2, 1916, pp. I 7 I-I 79 - , <(T „ ~ . ... 

Judas Iscariot. Includes also: Eleazar (see “Lazarus ); Ben lobit 
(see “Crushed Flower”). Tr. by W. H. Lowe. London, 1910 

(Griffith). . xt 1 

Katerina (Katherina Ivanovna). Tr. by H. Bernstein. New Yor , 


1923 (Brentano). 

King Hunger. Tr. by E. M. Kayden. Poet Lore, No. 6, 1911, PP- 

Lazarus. Tr. by A. Yarmolinsky. Boston, 1918 (Stratford Co.). 
Lazarus. In Best Russian Short Stories, pp. 215-234, New York 
1917. (Boni & Liveright). 

Life of Man. Tr. by C. J. Hogart. London, 1915 (Allan & Unwin). 


See also “Savva.” . c 

Little Angel, The. Includes also: At the Road Station; Snapper, 
The Lie; An Original; Petka at the Bungalow (Little Peter in the Coun¬ 
try) ; Silence; Laughter; The Friend; In the Basement; The City; The 
Marseillaise; The Tocsin; Bargamot and Garaska; Stepping Stones 
(Splendid is the Life of the Resuscitated). Tr. by H. Bernstein. New 
York, 1915 (Knopf). See “Silence.” xT v . 

Love to Your Neighbor. Tr. by T. Seltzer. New York, 1914 
(Glebe). The same, under the title “The Dear Departing, tr. by J. 

West, London, 1916 (Henderson). , TT t. 

Luckiest Man in the World, The (Chemodanov). Tr. by H. Bern¬ 
stein. World Fiction , August, 1922, pp. 57 - 63 - 

Plays by Leonid Andreyeff: The Black Maskers; The Life of Man 
(see “Savva”) ; The Sabine Women. Tr. by S. L. Meader and F. N. 
Scott, with an introduction by V. Brusyamn. New York, 1915 (Scrib¬ 
ner’s). Q 

Pretty Sabine Women. The Drama, February, 1914. PP- 34 " 7 i- =ee 

“Plays.” ^ 

Realm of Roerich, The. Tr. by A. Kaun. The New Republic , De¬ 


cember 21, 1921, PP- 97 - 99 - T j c 

Red Laugh, The. Tr. by Alexandra Linden. London, 1905. bee 

“The Seven,” etc. . xT , 

Samson in Chains. Tr. by H. Bernstein. New York, 1923 

(Brentano). 


Bibliography 33 1 

Satan’s Diary. Tr. by H. Bernstein. New York, 1920 (Boni & 
Liveright). 

S. O. S., tr. by J. Pollock. Nineteenth Century and after, June, 1919J 
pp. 1061-1071. 

Savva. Includes also: The Life of Man. Tr. by T. Seltzer. New 
York, 1914 (Mitchell Kennerley). See “Life of Man” and “Plays.” 

Seven That Were Hanged, The. Tr. by H. Bernstein. New York, 
1909 (Ogilvie). 

Seven That Were Hanged, The. Includes: Red Laugh. New York, 
1918 (Boni & Liveright). 

Silence. Tr. by J. Cournos. Philadelphia, 1908 (Brown Brothers). 

Silence. Lip pine ott’s, August, 1912, pp. 235-251. 

Silence. Includes the same stories as the volume “The Little Angel,” 
with the addition of The Wall. Tr. by W. H. Lowe. London, 1908 
(Griffith). 

Sorrows of Belgium, The (King, Law, Liberty). Tr. by H. Bern¬ 
stein. New York, 1915 (Macmillan). 

To the Stars. Tr. by Dr. A. Goudiss. Poet Lore, No. 4, 1907, pp. 
417-467. 

Waltz of the Dogs, The. Tr. by H. Bernstein. New York, 1922 
(Macmillan). 

When the King Loses His Head (Thus It Was). Includes: Judas 
Iscariot; Life of Father Vassily (Fiveysky) ; Ben Tobit (see “Crushed 
Flower” and “Judas Iscariot”); The Marseillaise (see “Little Angel” 
and “Silence”); Dies Irae (Day of Wrath). Tr. by A. J. Wolfe. New 
York, 1920 (International). 

C. FRENCH TRANSLATIONS OF ANDREYEV’S WRITINGS 

Au pied de l’echafaud. Translations from Andreyev and other mod¬ 
ern Russian writers, by J. W. Bienstock and Dr. A. Skarvan. Paris, 1911 
(Mercure de France ). 

C’fitait . . . Revue Bleue, January, 1903. 

Dans le Sous-Sol. Revue Bleue, October, 1903. 

L’Lpouvante. Tr. by T. de Wyzewa and S. Persky. Paris, 1903 
(Perrin et Cie). 

Le Gouffre. Tr. by S. Persky. Paris, 1903 (Perrin at Cie). 

Le Gouverneur (together with Korolenko’s Le Musicien aveugle). 
Tr. by J. Ferenczy. Paris, 1909 (Ferenczy), 


332 Leonid Andreyev 

Judas Iscariote. Tr. by S. Persky. Paris, 1914 (Payot). 

Le Joug de la guerre. Confidences d’un petit homme durant le grands 
jours. Paris, 1917 (Collection de la Grande Revue). 

Memoirs d’un prisonier. Tr. by S. Persky.^ Paris, 1913 (Fontemoing). 
Nouvelles (contains: The Governor; Snapper; Life of Captain 
Kablukov; The Foreigner; Bargamot and Garaska; The Present; At 
the Station; Life is Splendid for the Resurrected). Tr. by S. Persky. 
Paris, 1908 (Monde Illustre). 

Le Rire rouge. La Guerre en Mandchourie. Tr. by S. Perskv. 
Paris, 1905 (Perrin). 

Les Sept Pendus (includes: La vie d’un pope). Tr. by S. Persky and 
A. Touchard. Paris, 1911 (Fasquelle). 

Une Victime de Nietzsche (Histoire de Serguei Pietrovitch), tr. by Z. 
Yelenkova and Fagus. Mercure de France , March, 1903, pp. 620-654. 

D. DUTCH TRANSLATIONS OF ANDREYEV’S WRITINGS 

De gedachte. Tr. by S. van Praag. Amsterdam, 1917 (E. Querido). 
De gouverneur. Tr. by J. C. Termaat. Nijmegen, 1906 (H. Prakke). 
In de slaapstee. Tr. by J. C. Termaat. (Zie Bibliotheek van 
Russische literatuur, No. 8, 1908). 

Judas Iskarioth en de anderen. Tr. by Annie de Graaff. (Zie 
Bibliotheek van Russische literatuur, Nos. 13, 14, 1908). 

De opstandige dorpspriester. Tr. by S. van Praag. Amsterdam, 1916 
(E. Querido). 

De roode lach. Tr. by J. C. Termaat. Nijmegen, 1906 (H. Prakke). 
S. O. S. Tr. by E. en L. de Haas, 1919 (W. P. van Stockum & 
Zoon). 

De smarten van Belgie. Tr. by Oswaldi. Amsterdam, 1918 (J. Ml. 
Meulenhoff). 

De zeven gehangenen. Tr. by S. van Praag. Amsterdam, 1918 (E. 
Querido). 

E. GERMAN TRANSLATIONS OF ANDREYEV’S WRITINGS 
Der Abgrund. Berlin, 1903 (J. Rade). 

Der Abgrund, und andere Novellen. Tr. by T. Kroczek. Halle, 
1905 (D. Hendel). 

Anathema. Tr. by C. Ritter. Berlin, 1911 (Ladyschnikow). 


Bibliography 333 


Der Auslander und andere Geschichten. Tr. by Anna Lubinow. Ber- 
lin, 1903 (Steintz). 

Der, der die Maulschellen kriegt. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1921 
(Ladyschnikow). 

Ezrahlungen. Tr. by Elissawetinskaja and Y. Georg. Stuttgart, 
1902 (Deutsche Verlag). 

Es war einmal. Tr. by S. Goldenring. (Includes: Das Schweigen, 
Das Lachen; Die Luge). Berlin, 1.902 (Neufeld & Henius). 

Friihlingsversprechen und andere Geschichten. Tr. by S. Wermer. 
Vienna, 1904 (Wiener Verlag). 

Gaudeamus. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1912 (Bong & Co.). 

Der Gedanke. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1922 (Ladyschni¬ 


kow) . 

Der Gedanke und andere Novellen. Tr. by Elissawetinskaja and Y. 
Georg. Munich, 1903 (A. Langen). 

Die Geschichte von den Sieben Gehenkten. Munich, 1920 (Musurion 
Verlag). See “Die Sieben,” etc. 

Der Gouverneur. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1906 (Ladyschnikow). 
Hinter dem Front (ein Teil des Romans “Unter dem Joch des Kriegs”). 
Tr. by H. v. zur Muhlen. Zurich, 1918 (M. Rascher). 

Ignis Sanat (Sawwa). Tr. by D. D. Potthof. Berlin, 1906. 

Im Erdgeschoss und anderes. Berlin, 1903 (Globus Verlag). 

Im Nebel. Tr. by L. A. Hauff. Berlin, 1905 (D. Janke). 

Im Nebel. Tr. by Steinitz. Berlin, 1903. 

Im Nebel. Tr. by S. Wermer. Vienna, 1903 (Wiener Verlag). 

Im Nebel und andere Novellen. Tr. by Elissawetinskaja and Y. 
Georg. Stuttgart, 1903 (Deutsche Verlag). 

Jekaterina Iwanowna. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1914 (Ladyschm- 

Judas Ischariot und die Anderen. Tr. by O. Buck. Berlin, 1908 
(Ladyschnikow). 

Das Leben des Menschen. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1908 (Lady- 

Das Leben Vater Wassili Fiwejski’s. Tr. by G. Polonski. Berlin, 
1906 (Ladyschnikow). 

Die Luge. Ausgewahlte Erzahlungen. Tr. by N. Hornstein. Dres¬ 


den, 1902 (H. Minden). , xy ^ 

Die Luge. Ausgewahlte Erzahlungen. Tr. by N. Hornstein. Dres¬ 
den, 1920 (H. Minden). 

Ein Nachtgesprach. Leipzig, 1921 (Renaissance Verlag). 


334 Leonid Andreyev 

Novellen. Tr. by S. Goldenring. Contains: Once there Lived; Si¬ 
lence; Laughter; The Lie; The Abyss; Valya; Little Peter in the Coun¬ 
try; The Grand Slam; The Tocsin. Berlin, 1902 (Neufeld & Henius). 
Novellen. Tr. by A. von Krusenstjerna. Leipzig, 1904 (Reclam). 
Das Rote Lachen. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1905 (Ladyschnikow). 
Das Rote Lachen. Tr. by A. Luther (illustrated). Berlin, 1922 
(Emphorion). 

Die Sieben Gehenkten. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1908 (Ladyschni¬ 
kow). 

Die Sieben Gehenkten. Munich, 1908 (R. Piper & Co.). 

Der Spion. Tr. by S. Wermer. Vienna, 1905 (Wiener Verlag). 
Studentenliebe. Tr. by C. Richter. Berlin, 1909 (Ladyschnikow). 
Tagebuch des Satan. Tr. by A. Rabinowitsch. Leipzig, 1921 (Ren- 
aisance Verlag). 

Zu den Sternen. Tr. by A. Scholz. Berlin, 1906 (Ladyschnikow). 

F. ITALIAN TRANSLATIONS OF ANDREYEV’S WRITINGS 
L’abisso. Rome, 1920 (Carra & Co.). 

Anathema (fragments from the play, supplemented to Dino Provenzal’s 
book: Una vittima del dubbio: Leonide Jndreief). Rome, 1921 
(Bilychnis). 

II Belgio vivra. Tr. by Markoff and Morselli. Rome, 1915 (Bon- 
tempelli). See “Re, legge e liberta.” 

Un delitto tragico. Tr. by Edm. Corradi. Rome, 1910 (Carra). 
Diario di Satana. Tr. by T. Interlandi and B. Gurevich. Bologna, 
1922 (Apollo). 

II figlio del’uomo, e altre novelle. Tr. by P. Gobetti and A. Prospero. 
Milan, 1920 (Sonzogno). 

II giogo della guerra. Milan, 1919 (Sonzogno). 

Giuda Iscariota. Tr. by D. Cinti. Milan, 1919 (Sonzogno). 
Lazzaro, e altre novelle. Tr. by C. Rebora. Florence, 1919 (Val- 
lecchi). 

Padre Vassili. Includes: Bassi fondi; La Marsigliese. Tr. by C. 
Castelli. Milan, 1922 (Avanti!). 

II pensiero includes: Le maschere nere. Tr. by the Duchess d’And- 
tria. Milan, 1921 (R. Caddeo & Co.). 

Re, legge e liberta. Tr. by O. Campa. Lanciano, 1916 (Carraba). 
See “II Belgio.” 

II riso rosso. Tr. by C. Castelli. Milan, 1915 (Sonzogno). 


Bibliography 335 

La rivoluzione (cosi fu). Tr. by C. Castelli. Milan, 1918 (Son- 
zogno). 

Savva (Ignis sanat). Tr. by Gobetti and A. Prospero. Ferrara, 1921 
(A. Taddei). 

I sette impiccati. Tr. by D. Cinti. Milan, 1919 (Sonzogno). 

Sotto il giogo della guerra: confessioni di un piccolo uomo su giorni 
grandi. Tr. by L. and F. Paresca. Florence, 1919 (Vallecchi). See 
“II giogo,” etc. 

G. SPANISH TRANSLATIONS OF ANDREYEV’S WRITINGS 

Los espectros. Novelas breves. Tr. by N. Tasin. Madrid, 1919 
(Collection Universal). 

Judas Icariote. Tr. by N. Tasin. Madrid, 1920 (Biblioteca nueva). 
El misterio y otros cuentos. Tr. by N. Tasin. Madrid, 1921 
(Coleccion Universal). 

El Oceano. Tr. by A. Ruste. Madrid, 1922 (S. G. E. de Libreria). 
Sachka Yegulev. Tr. by N. Tasin. Madrid, 1919 (Coleccion Uni¬ 
versal). 

Los siete ahorcados. Tr. by G. Porthof. Madrid, 1919 (Biblioteca 
nueva). 

H. SWEDISH TRANSLATIONS OF ANDREYEV’S WRITINGS 

Djavulens dagbok. Tr. by Jarl Hemmer. Bnr., 1921. 

Det roda skrattet. Stockholm, 1906 (Bonnier). 

I Taagen u. a. Noveller. Tr. by L. Swendsen. 1909 (E. Jespersen). 

This list of translations is by no means complete. Some of Andreyev’s 
writings have been translated into Hebrew, Yiddish, Turkish, Japanese. 


I. BOOKS ON ANDREYEV, IN RUSSIAN 
(A star (*) indicates unverified or inaccessible references.) 

* Alman, A. D., Leonid Andreyev: My Memoirs. A critical Study. 
Saratov, 1908. 

Arabazhin, K. I. Leonid Andreyev: A Summary of His Work. 
Petersburg, 1910* 



336 Leonid Andreyev 

* Baranov, I. L., Leonid Andreyev as an Artist—Psychologist and 
Thinker. Kiev, 1907. 

Botsyanovsky, F. L., Leonid Andreyev: A Critical-Biographical Study 
Petersburg, 1903. 

Brusyanin, V. V., Leonid Andreyev. His Life and IVork. Moscow, 
1912. 

* Charsky, L., In Order. Petersburg, 1908. 

Chukovsky, K., L. Andreyev—Big and Little. Petersburg, 1908. 
Chukovsky, K., On Leonid Andreyev. Petersburg, 1911. 

* Churinov, I., The Tragedy of Thought. Petersburg, 1910. 

* Dobrokhotov, A., The Career of L. Andreyev. Moscow, 1908. 

* Ettinger, E., Andreyev s Someone in Grey and Someone in Red. 
Kiev, 1908. 

Fischer, K., Anathema as presented by the Moscow Art Theatre. 
Moscow, 1910. 

Friche, L., Leonid Andreyev: An Essay in Characterization. Mos¬ 
cow, 1909. 

* Ganzhulevich, T., Russian Life and Its Currents in the Works of 
Leonid Andreyev. Petersburg, 1910. 

* Gekker, N., Leonid Andreyev and His Works. Odessa, 1903. 
Gorky, Maxim; Blok, Alexander; Chukovsky, Korney; Chulkov, 

Georgy; Teleshov, Nikolay; Zaytsev, Boris; Zamyatin, Evgeny; Bely, 
Andrey, in their reminiscences, in A Book on Leonid Andreyev. Petro- 
grad, 1922. 

Ivanov, P., To the Enemies of L. Andreyev. Moscow, 1904. 
Lvov-Rogachevsky, V., Two Truths. Petersburg, 1914. 

* M. K., Leonid Andreyev. Moscow, 1903. 

* Muromtsev, Dr. M., Psychopatic Traits in the Heroes of L. An¬ 
dreyev. Petersburg, 1910. 

* Nevedomsky, M. N., At the Breaking Point. Petersburg, 1909. 

* Prokhorov, C. V., Individualism in the Works of L. Andreyev. 
Petersburg, 1910. 

Reisner, M. A., Andreyev and His Social Ideology. Petersburg, 
1909. 

* Smolensky, N., To the Defenders of L. Andreyev. Moscow, 1910. 
Michael, Father, To Fathers and Children. Moscow, 1904. 

* Stomyarov-Sukhanov, Symbolism, and L. Andreyev as Its Representa¬ 
tive. Kiev, 1903. 

* Strumilin, S., Spiritual Aristocracy and Profaners. Petersburg, 1910. 

* Tkachev, G. J., Pathologic Art. Harkov, 1913. 


Bibliography 337 

* Umius, L. Andreyev and His Literary Heroes, Nizhni-Novgorod, 
1910. 

* Urusov, Pr. N., Impotent Individuals in Andreyev s Presentation. 
Petersburg, 1903. 

* Witte, Sophia, Leonid Andreyev: A Critical Study. Odessa, 1910. 

* Zhurakovsky, E., Realism, Symbolism, and Mystification of Life by 
L. Andreyev. Moscow, 1903. 

Zhurakovsky, E., The Tragicomedy of Modern Life. Moscow, 1907* 

J. ARTICLES ON ANDREYEV, IN RUSSIAN BOOKS AND 
PERIODICALS 

* Adrianov, in Messenger of Self-Education, Nos. 35 an d I 9°4 
(Petersburg). 

* Alexandrov, P., Maxim Gorky and L. Andreyev: Their Life and 
Work. Riga, 1903. 

* Amfiteatrov, A., in Against the Current. Petersburg, 1908. 
Andreyev, Leonid, From My Life, in Everybody's Magazine, January, 

1903 (Petersburg). 

Andreyev, Leonid. Autobiography, in Fidler’s First Literary Steps, 
pp. 28-33. Petersburg, 1911. 

Andreyevich (Solovyev), in An Essay on the Philosophy of Russian 
Literature, Chapter VIII, pp. 499 - 5 H* Petersburg, 1905. 

* Anichkov, E., in Messenger of Knowledge, Petersburg, 1903. 
Annensky, I., Judas—A New Symbol, in Second Book of Reflections. 

Petersburg, 1909. 

Asheshov, N., Life of Vasily Fiveysky, in Culture (Obrazovaniye ), 
May, 1904, pp. 8 i-99 (Petersburg). 

Avrely (Bryusov), Andreyev’s Life of Man at the Moscow Art Thea¬ 
tre, in The Balance, January, 1908, pp. 143-146 (Moscow). 

Batyushkov, F., Life of Man, in The Contemporary World, March, 
1907. 

Batyushkov, F., Notes on the Theatre (To the Stars), in God's World, 
July, 1906 (Petersburg). 

Bely, A., Reminiscences, see “Gorky.” 

Blok, A., Concerning Realists, in The Golden Fleece, May, 1907 
(Moscow). 

Blok, A., Reminiscences, see “Gorky.” 

Boborykin, P., At a Tragic Play, in Theatre and Art, No. 42, 1909 
(Moscow). 


338 Leonid Andreyev 

Bostrem, A., What Andreyev’s Story [In Fog] Tells the Paternal 
Heart, in Culture, December, 1904. 

* Botsyanovsky, V., in Literary Messenger, January, 1902. 

Bulgakov, V. F., in With L. N. Tolstoy during the Last Year of His 

Life, pp. 141-146. Petersburg, 1911. 

Burenin, V., Critical Notes, in New Times, January, 1902, No. 9666. 
(Petersburg). 

* Chagovets, V., in The Kiev Gazette, November, 1903. 

Chirikov, E., Leonid Andreyev, in Russian Miscellanies — II, pp. 57—75, 
Sofia. 

Chukovsky, K., in From Chekhov to Our Days, pp. 129-140. Peters¬ 
burg, 1908. 

Chukovsky, K., Reminiscences, see “Gorky.” 

Chulkov, G., see “Gorky.” 

Derman, A., Concerning Professor Storitsyn, in Russia's Riches, Febru¬ 
ary, 1913, pp. 403-410 (Petersburg). 

* Dryer, D., Andreyev’s Anathema, in the Miscellany A Black Tem¬ 
ple —■/. Moscow, 1910. 

Efros, Anathema, in Speech, October, 1909 (Petersburg). 

Eichenwald, Y., Literary Notes, in Russian Thought, January, 1908, 
PP- 3-65 (Moscow). 

Eichenwald, Y., in Silhouettes of Russian Writers —III, pp. 147-175 
(4th edition). Berlin, 1923. 

Filosofov, D., in A Spring Breeze, in Word and Life. Petrograd, n. d. 

Galich, L., The Black Maskers, in Theatre and Art, No. 51, 1908. 

Gerasimov, in At the Bellows (on Savva). Petersburg, 1907. 

Gorky, Chukovsky, Blok, Chulkov, Zaytsev, Teleshov, Zamyatin, Bely, 
Reminiscences, in A Book on Andreyev, Petrograd, 1922. 

Gornfeld, A., Andreyev’s Small Tales, etc. (To the Stars, Savva, Life 
of Man, Thus It Was, The Thief, The Governor ), in Books and Men, 
pp. 5-18. Petersburg, 1908. 

Gornfeld, A., My Memoirs, in Russia's Riches, January, 1909, pp. 96- 
120. 

* Gurevich, Lubov, in Literature and ^Esthetics, pp. 61-64. Peters¬ 
burg, 1912. 

Gurevich, Lubov, Anathema, in Russian Thought, November, 1909. 

Gurevich, Lubov, the Miscellany Znaniye for 1903 (Life of Vasily 
Fiveysky), in Culture, May, 1905. 

Gusev, in Two Years with L. N. Tolstoy, pp. 77 — 81. Moscow, 1912. 

Hippius, Z., on Darkness, in The Balance, February, 1908. 


Bibliography 339 

Hippius, Z., The Latest Fiction, in The Balance , March, 1903. 

Hippius, Z., On Judas , in The Balance , July, 1907. 

Homo Novus, see “Kugel.” 

Ivanov, Vyacheslav, Andreyev’s New Story (Life of Vasily Fiveysky), 
in The Balance , May, 1904. 

Ivanov-Razumnik, in On the Sense of Life. Petersburg, 1908. 

Izmaylov, A., in Literary Olympus , pp. 235-293. Moscow, 1911. 

Kizevetter, A., Notes on the Theatre, in Russian Thought , November, 

1909. 

Kogan, Peter, in Notes on the History of Modern Russian Literature, 
v. I, part I, pp. 1-61. Moscow, 1912. 

Kozlovsky, L. S., L. Andreyev, in Vengerov’s Russian Literature of 
the Twentieth Century, pp. 251-280. 

Kranichfeld, V., in Culture, October, 1902. 

Kranichfeld, V., Anathema, and others, in Contemporary World, Jan¬ 
uary, 1910, pp. 82-94 (Petersburg). 

Kranichfeld, V., Concerning Andreyev’s Latest Production (To the 
Stars) , in Contemporary World, October, 1906. 

Kranichfeld, V., Darkness, in Contemporary World, January, 1908. 

Kranichfeld, V., Savva, in God's World, April, 1906. 

Kranichfeld, V., The Seven That Were Hanged, in Contemporary 
World, June, 1908. 

Kugel, A., The Black Maskers, in Theatre and Art, No. 42, 1909. 

Kugel, A., Gaudeamus, in Theatre and Art, No. 38, 1910. 

Kugel, A., Life of Man, in Theatre and Art, September, 1907. 

Kugel, A., The Presentation of Life of Man at the Moscow Art Thea¬ 
tre, in Theatre and Art , No. 17, 1908. 

Latsky, E., Andreyev’s New Story ( Life of Vasily Fiveysky), in Mes¬ 
senger of Europe, November, 1904 (Petersburg). 

Latsky, E., Betwixt Abyss and Mystery (Judas), in Contemporary 
World, August, 1908. 

* Lenin, A., Our Writers, in Miscellany A Black Temple —■/. Mos¬ 
cow, 1910. 

Lorenzo, To Andreyev’s Fifteenth Anniversary, in Russia's Morning, 
No. 79, 1913 (Moscow). 

Lunacharsky, A., in Literary Disintegration, Petersburg, 1908. 

Lunacharsky, A., in News from Abroad, No. 3, 1908. 

Lunacharsky, A., in Russian Thought, February, 1903. 

Lunacharsky, A., A New Drama (Life of Man), in Messenger of 
Knowledge, March-April, 1907. 


340 Leonid Andreyev 

Lunacharsky, A., Social Philosophy and Social Mysticism {Savva), in 
Culture, May, 1906. 

Lvov (-Rogachevsky), V., Children of the Sun (by Gorky) and To 
the Stars, in Culture, July, 1906. 

Lvov, V., Judas, in Culture, June-July, 1907. 

Lvov, V., Steps of Death {Life of Man), in Culture, March, 1907* 

Lvov-Rogachevsky, V., in Again on the Eve. Petersburg, 1913* 

Lvov-Rogachevsky, V., Concerning Sashka Zhegulev, in Contemporary 
World, January, 1912, pp. 269-281. 

Lvov-Rogachevsky, V., A Dead Kingdom, in Culture, November, 1904* 
PP- 73-130. 

Lvov-Rogachevsky, V., Phantoms and Red Laugh, in Culture, March, 
I9 ° 5 * 

Merezhkovsky, D., In the Paws of an Ape, in Russian Thought, Jan¬ 
uary, 1908. 

Mikhailovsky, N., Literature and Life, in Russia's Riches, November, 
1901, pp. 58-75. 

Minsky, N., L. Andreyev and Merezhkovsky, in Our Gazette — I, 1908 
(Petersburg). 

Mirsky (Solovyev), Our Literature, in Everybody's Magazine, Janu- 
ary-February, 1902. 

Mirtov, O., War in the Works of Tolstoy, Garshin, Andreyev, in 
Culture, October, 1905. 

Morozov, M., in Notes on Modern Literature, pp. 1—70. Petersburg, 
1911. 

N., Andreyev’s Sea Wanderings, in Russia's Morning, September 8, 
I 9 I 3 - 

Narodin, K., Beauty and Ham {Professor Storitsyn), in Contemporary 
World, May, 1914, pp. 39 ~ 5 i- 

Nevedomsky, M., L. Andreyev, in History of Russian Literature of the 
Nineteenth Century—V (edited by Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky), pp. 260-272. 
Petersburg, 1910. 

Nevedomsky, M., Darkness, in Contemporary W orld, February, 
1908. 

Nevedomsky, M., Life of Vasily Fiveysky, in God's World, October, 
1904. 

Nevedomsky, M., On Art Quests, in Contemporary World, January, 
March, April, 1909. 

Nevedomsky, M., On Contemporary Creative Art, in God's World, 
April, 1903, PP- 1-42. 


Bibliography 341 

Nevedomsky, M., A Victim of Stilization ( Life of Man), in Contem¬ 
porary World, December, 1908. 

Novik, I., Leonid Andreyev: Reminiscences, in The Russian Emi¬ 
grant, Nos. 3, 4, 1920 (Berlin). 

Orlovsky [V. V. Vorovsky], in From Modern Literature, pp. 37-58. 
Moscow, 1910. 

Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky, D., in Collected Works — V, Petersburg, 1912. 
Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky, D., Notes on Andreyev’s Art, in Heat Light¬ 
nings — II, pp. 197-214. Petersburg, 1909. 

Pavlovich, P., Red Laugh, in Messenger of Knowledge, July, 1905. 
Petrony, Andreyev’s Tenth Anniversary, in Free Thoughts, April 15, 
1908 (Petersburg). 

* Pilsky, P., in On Andreyev, Kuprin, Sologub, etc., Petersburg, 1909. 
P-y (Pilsky), P., in Contemporary World, April, 1908. 

Protopopov, M., Young Sprouts, in Russian Thought, March, 1902, pp. 

187-206. 

Redko, A., Anathema, etc., in Russia's Riches, December, 1909, pp. 75- 
94. 

Redko, A., Andreyev’s Good and Bad Ones.— Ibid., June-July, 1908, 
pp. 1-19, 1-17. 

Redko, A., Andreyev’s Ocean. Ibid., May, 1911, pp. 152-163. 

Redko, A., Andreyev’s Sashka Zhegulev. Ibid., January, 1912, pp. 
139-147. 

Redko, A., An Elegy by Andreyev ( The Black Maskers). Ibid., 
April, 1909, pp. 173-183. 

Redko, A., Gorky on the Guilty and Andreyev on the Innocent Ones. 
Ibid., February, 1905. 

Rossov, Anathema, in Theatre and Art, No. 47, 1909. 

Rostislavov, Life of Man, in Theatre and Art, November, 1907. 
Rozanov, V., Apropos, in New Times, No. 9677, June 2, 1903. 
Rozanov, V., Judas Iscariot. Ibid., July 19, 1907. 

* Skabichevsky, A., New Talent, in News, January, 1902 (Petersburg). 
Skabicheysky, A., Degenerates in Our Contemporary Literature ( Life 

of Vasily Fiveysky), in Russian Thought, November, 1904, pp. 85-101. 

Skitalets (Petrov), Reminiscences, in Russia's Voice, Nos. 462, 467, 
470, 472, 474, February, 1922 (Harbin). 

Shulyatnikov, V., On a New Theory of Art, in The Moscow Courier, 
August 16, 1903. 

Smirnov, A., The Tragedy of Anarchism (Savva), in Culture, Novem¬ 
ber, 1906. 


342 Leonid Andreyev 

Stark, E., Tsar Hunger, in Theatre and Art, No. 21, 1908. 

Teleshov, see “Gorky.” 

* Tolstoy, L. N., in Miscellany Italia, 1909. 

Tolstoy, Countess Sophia, Letter to the Editor, in New Times, No. 
9673, February 7, 1903, p. 4. 

Treplev, in Russian Thought, April, May, June, September, November, 
1905. 

* Vartanyan, V., in L. N. Tolstoy and L. Andreyev, as Ideologists of 
the Toiling Masses . Baku, 1909. 

Vengerov, S., in Brockhaus & Efron’s Encyclopedic Dictionary, supple¬ 
mentary Volume I, pp. 115-118. Petersburg, 1905. 

Vengerov, S., in Russian Literature of the Twentieth Century, pp. 246- 
251. Moscow, 1917. 

Veresayev, V., Reminiscences, in Morning Breezes, pp. 79-85. Petro- 
grad, 1922. 

* Vladislavov, I., in Russian Writers of the Nineteenth and Twentieth 
Centuries, pp. 13-18. Petersburg, 1913. 

* Volsky, A., The Problem of Duty in Russian Literature ( Thought, 
In Fog, Life of Vasily Fiveysky ), in Truth, January, 1905 (Petersburg). 

Volzhsky, in Everybody's Magazine, July, 1904. 

Volzhsky, in From the World of Literary Quests. Petersburg, 1906. 

* Voytolovsky, L., Social-Psychologic Types in Andreyev’s Stories, in 
Truth, August, 1905, pp. 123-140. 

Yasinsky, J., in Monthly Writings, December, 1901 (Petersburg). 

Yordansky, Maria, L. Andreyev’s Emigration and Death, in Native 
Land, I, pp. 44-63. 

* Zakrzevsky, in Dostoyevsky; Andreyev, pp. 4-28. Petersburg, 1911. 

Zamyatin, see “Gorky.” 

Zaytsev, see “Gorky.” 

Zetlin, M., On the Art of Leonid Andreyev, in Russia of the Future, 
February, 1920, pp. 243-256 (Paris). 

K. ARTICLES ON ANDREYEV IN ENGLISH 

Anonymous, Apostle of the Terrible, in Lippincott's, August, 1912, pp. 
235-240. 

Anonymous, A New Portent in Russian Literature, in Current Litera¬ 
ture, September, 1908, pp. 282-286. 

Anonymous, A Novelist of Nerves, in the London Nation, reproduced 
in The Living Age, February 18, 1911, pp. 434-437. 


Bibliography 343 

Baring, Maurice, A Russian Mystery Play {The Life of Man), in The 
Oxford and Cambridge Review, reproduced in The Living Age, Septem¬ 
ber 26, 1908, pp. 786-792. 

Chukovsky, K., L. Andreyev as Seen by a Fellow Russian, in The Liv¬ 
ing Age, June 26, 1920, pp. 776-779 (translated from The Literary 
Messenger, Petrograd, 1919). 

Gorky, M., L. Andreyev at Capri, in The Living Age, August 26, 1922, 
pp. 525-529 (translated from the Milan Avanti!; a portion of Gorky’s 
reminiscences in A Book on Andreyev). 

Kaun, A., The Art of Andreyev, in The Freeman, September 22, 1920, 

PP. 35-37. 

Kaun, A., Chekhov and Andreyev, in The Little Review, September, 
1914, pp. 44 - 49 * 

Kaun, A., The End of Andreyev, in The New Republic, June 28, 1922, 

PP- I33-I35- 

Kaun, A., Leonid Andreyev, in the New York Nation, October 11, 

1917, PP* 393-395- 

Kaun, A., Leonid Andreyev’s Last Illusion, in The New Republic, 
August 8, 1923, pp. 282-283. 

Kaun, A., The Solitude of Leonid Andreyev, in the Freeman, June 21, 

1923, PP* 356-357. 

Kayden, E. M., The Life and Work of L. Andreyev, in The Dial, 
November 15, 1920, pp. 425-428. 

Lavretsky, I., A Sketch of L. Andreyev, in The Independent, July 29, 
1909, pp. 242-245. 

Milyukov, P., L. Andreyev and His Appeal to Humanity, in Strug¬ 
gling Russia, July 26, 1919 , PP- 282-285. 

Olgin, M., A Wounded Intellect, in The New Republic, December 24, 
1919, pp. 123-125. 

Pasvolsky, L., L. Andreyev and the Bolsheviki, in The Review, De¬ 
cember 6, 1919 , PP* 638-639. 

Persky, S., in Contemporary Russian Novelists, pp. 199 - 245 » Boston, 
1913 . 

Phelps, W. L., in Russian Novelists, pp. 262-277, New York, 1911. 

Seltzer, T., The Life and Works of L. Andreyev, in The Drama, 
February, 1914, pp. 5 ~ 33 - 

Thomson, O. R. H., Andreyev’s Anathema and the Faust Legend, in 
The North American Review, December, 1911, pp. 882-887. 

Witte, Sophia, Russian Literature and the War, in The Independent, 
May 11, 1905, PP- 1043-1045* 


344 Leonid Andreyev 

A suggestive epitaph appeared in Life and Letters, September, 1922, 
p. 11, by Clarendon Ross: 


LEONID ANDREYEV 

Walls, walls, walls. 

I found myself enclosed by walls: 

The granite wall of natural law, 

The bloody wall of the laws of man, 
The slippery wall of my own mind, 
The murky wall of the unknown, 
The iron wall of fate, 

The gray wall of old age, 

The lofty wall of death. 

On these seven walls I pounded 
Till I fell by the wall of death 
At the age of forty-eight. 

Perchance you that now live 
Have gained the way to freedom? 


L. NOTES ON ANDREYEV IN FRENCH PERIODICALS 

Hippius, Z., in Notes sur la litterature russe de notre temps, in Mercure 
de France, January 1, 1908, pp. 74-75. 

Semenoff, E., in Lettres russes, in Mercure de France: 

April, 1903, PP* 275-281 (apropos of the polemic in connection with 
The Abyss and In Fog). 

May, 1905, p. 310. 

February 15, 1906, pp. 627-630 (Vers les Etoiles ). 

February 16, 1908, pp. 755—756 (Les Tenebres ). 

May 1, 1908, pp. 175-177 (Le Roi-la-Faim). 

July 16, 1908, pp. 347-349 (Les Recits des Sept pendus). 

January 16, 1909, p. 368 (bare mention of Masques Noirs , and Les 
Jours de la Vie). 

April 1, 1909, p. 561 (bare mention of Anathema). 

November 16, 1909, pp. 372-374 (Anfisa). 

October I, 1910, pp. 568-569 (Gaudeamus). 

April 1, 1912, p. 660 (Sachka Gegouleff). 

August 16, 1913, p. 873 (Les Memoirs Tun Prisonnier ). 


Bibliography 345 

Wyzewa, de, Deux nouveaux conteurs russes: MM. Andreief et Artsi- 
bashef, in Revue des deux Mondes, —May 15, 1909, pp. 458-465. 

Persky, Serge, in Les maitres du roman russe contemporain, pp. 245- 
285. Paris, 1912. 

M. NOTES IN GERMAN PERIODICALS (ACCORDING TO 
BIBLIO GRA PH IE DER DEUTSCHEN ZE 1 TSCHRIFTEN- 
ARTIKELN) 

Anonymous, in Landeszeitung (Beiblatt), No. 23, 1903 (Karlsruhe). 
Anonymous, in Die Zeit, No. 50, 1903 (Berlin). 

Aurich, Lv., in Die Woche, No. 47, 1912. 

Balte, F. M., in Morgen, No. 17, 1908. 

Balte, F. M., in Allgemeine Zeitung, 10/4, 1909 (Munich). 

Bruck, R., in Masken, 219, 1908 (Dusseldorf). 

Cramer, H. H. {Du sollst nicht toten), in Die Scene, VIII: 31, 1919 
(Charlottenburg). 

Diisel, F., {Studentenliebe) , in Der Kunstivart, 24. J. II. 200, 1911. 
Ernot, F., in d. literarische Echo — VIII, 20-21, 1905. 

Goldenring, St., in Norddeutsche allgemeine Zeitung, No. 260 (Berlin). 
Hochdorf, M., in Sozialistische Monatshefte, 18: 1035, 1918. 

Luther, A. {Joch d. Krieg ), in d. literarische Echo, 86-89, 1918. 
Poppenberg, F. {Zu den Sternen) in Der Turmer, March, 1907, pp. 
862-864 (Stuttgart). 

Rodef, in Wiener Fremdenblatt, 6/6, 1903. 

Scholz, A., in Die Zeit, No. 411, 1902 (Vienna). 

Simchowitz, S., in Die Kultur, No. 587, March, 1903, pp. 1066-1072 
(Cologne). 

Wolschsky, N., in Nation, No. 50, 1903 (Berlin). 

N. ANDREYEV’S PLAYS 

Nearly all of Andreyev’s plays (excepting those forbidden by the cen¬ 
sorship) were presented throughout Russia and Siberia. Outside of 
Russia they were played most often in Germany. Next in order come 
Italy, the Scandinavian countries, and the countries of the Balkan Slavs. 
At the very end come France, Spain, and the United States of America. 
American productions comprise: Anathema, Black Maskers, He Who Gets 
Slapped, Life of Man, Love to Your Neighbor, Pretty Sabine Women . 



346 Leonid Andreyev 

Satan's Diary was dramatized and presented at the Alexandrine Thea¬ 
tre, Petrograd, during the season 1922—1923* It was withdrawn for lack 
of success. According to the Berlin daily, Dni, Samson Enchained is to 
be produced by the Moscow Art Theatre in the season of 1923-1924. 

Three operas were based on Andreyev’s plays: Days of Our Life, 
composed by Glukhovetsky. Presented at the People’s Palace, Petrograd, 
during 1915-1916. The Abyss, by Rebikov. The Black Maskers, by 
Vladimir Nikolayevich Ilyin. 

The late composer Elia Satz wrote the incidental music for The Life 
of Man and Anathema. 

For the cinematograph Andreyev wrote a part of the scenario for 
Anfisa. 

The war prevented the Moscow Art Theatre from producing the pro¬ 
jected picture of Anathema. This Theatre is at present planning several 
films of Andreyev’s plays; among others, Katherina Ivanovna , with Mile. 
Germanova in the title role. An Italian company is about to produce 
a film version of He Who Gets Slapped . 


INDEX 



INDEX 


Andreyev’s writings are indexed under their titles. His personal character¬ 
istics, attitudes, views, utterances, and experiences, and also names of persons 
and works mentioned in his letters and diaries, are grouped under “Andreyev, 
Leonid Nikolayevich.” The characters of his stories and plays will be found 
under the heading “Characters.” 


A 

About the Writer, 51 
Abyss, the, 66, 71, 73, 74, 91, 183; out¬ 
lined 200-201; 262 
Adamovich, 75 
Aglavaine et Selysette, no 
Aizman, 60 
Aksakov, 62 
Aladyin, 309 
Alexander II, 21, 238 
Alexandrine Theatre, 140 
Alexeyev, General, 142, 149, 151 
“All-Russian Literary Society,” 124 
Also sprach Zarathustra, 35, 47, 197 
Amfiteatrov, 38; letter from Andreyev, 
120-121; 151, 180, 181, 198 
Anarchists, 235 

Anathema, 40, 53, 75, 87, 88, 105, 106, 
107, 117, 123, 125, 187, 212, 259, 
276, 278; outlined, 279-286; 288, 
299, 300, 321, 323 

Andreyev, Alexandra Mikhailovna, au¬ 
thor’s first wife, 77, 78; see also 
under Andreyev, L. N. 

Andreyev, Anastasia Nikolayevna, au¬ 
thor’s mother, 24, 32; see also under 
Andreyev, L. N. “mother” 
Andreyev, Anna Ilyinishna, author’s 
second wife, 22, 25, 26, 27, 28, 32, 
34 , 35 , 53 , 65, 77 , 79 , 82, 84, 89, 117, 
118, 138, 144, 160, 163, 169, 180, 
215, 264, 299; about her, 84-87; see 
also under Andreyev, L. N. 
Andreyev, Leonid Nikolayevich 

aeroplanes, imperiled by, 172, 174, 175 
agoraphobia, 41 
Ahasuerus (unborn), 130 
Alexandra Mikhailovna, 77, 78, 79 
America, longing for, 25; projected 
trip to, 169, 170, 171 


Anathema, 118, 124, 129, 160, 161 
Andreyev, Andrey, author’s brother, 

85, 167 

“Andreyev theatre,” 138 
Anfisa, 129 

Anna Ilyinishna, 85-87 

apostle of gloom, 46, 80, 126, 303, 304 

appeals to Allies, 150, 153 

Arabazhin, 109, 124 

army, Russian, idealized, 142-143; 

condemned, 147 
art as liberator, 118 
authority, man’s creation and refuge, 
227, 237, 266, 273 
average man, 206, 209, 227 
Black Maskers, letter about, 109-110; 
moment of composition, 118, 129; 
its interpretation, 173 
Blok, Alexander, 126, 127 
bodily ailments, 138, 139-140, 163, 
165, 166, 168, 170 

Bolsheviki, 151, 152, 153, 154; hostility 

toward, 158, 159, 168; intervention 

against, 173, 176, 180; propaganda 

against, 165, 167, 169, 170; spurns 

advances, 164 

Borne, Ludwig (as a mystic), 121 
Burtsev, 166 

Cadets (Liberals), 65, 303, 306 
capital punishment, 240, 257 
Cellini, Benvenuto, 119 
chance, 191, 192 
Chekhov, 43, 45, 58, 74, 91, 92 
Chernov, 173 
Christianity, 279, 280 
church, opposition of, 75, 123 
cinematograph, 92, 119, 319, 346 
city, hatred for, 23 
classes, social: workmen, 250-251; 
bourgeoisie, 253; Lumpenproletariat, 
252 


349 


Index 


350 


common sense, dogmatic, 271, 274, 

307 

companionship, need of, 124 
consistency, lack of, 41 
Constellation of Big Maxim, 60, 61 
Consuella, letter about, 317 
contradictions, 184, 185, 259, 294, 299, 
300 

creed, no definite, 13; c. expressed, 

121, 127-128 

criticism, generator of, 239 
critics, for and against A., 66, 67, 68, 
69, 7*> 72, 73. 74 , 75 , 76, 77 , 108, 

122, 123, 124, 238, 239 
crowd, the, 316 
Darkness, 161 

Days of Our Life, 118, 128, 129 

Dear Phantoms, 140 

death, 175, 176; d. of A. as an artist, 

137 , 138, i 73 

death, annihilated by love, 232, 241, 
286; fear of d. destroyed, 287; 
d. as liberator, 212; d. as a scare¬ 
crow, 240, 287; victory over d., 
243 

Decadents, 126 
decline of talent, 140, 323 
detachment, lack of, 13, 97 
diary, prophetic entry, 27, 75 
Dickens, 27 

discouragement, literary, 26 
disillusionments, 139, 141, 323 
disposition, as a boy, 23, 24, 179; as a 
child, 22, 83 

Dostoyevsky, 42, 52, 140, 163 
drink, addiction to, 32, 77, 118, 156 
Dumas, 27, 160 

escape into “other reality,” 33, 55, 

138, 139, 198 

eventfulness of A.’s lifetime, 21 
“explanation” caused by abuse, 123 
faith, 204, 205, 206 
father, 25 

feuilletons, 37, 39-56 
Finland, 24, 33, 82, 84, 122, 156, 158, 
162, 172, 173 

first acquaintance with the press, 35; 
first literary attempts, 26, 27-28, 
188; first period summarized, 207; 
first published story, 57; first vol¬ 
ume of stories, 66 

freedom, unendurable, 227, 272, 273 
Germany, 133, 136 
Gogol’s Popryshchin, 52 


Goloushev, 159, 160 
Gorky, 43, 57, 58, 59 , 68, 77, 121, 163, 
164, 171 

Goya, predilection for, 34, 35 
gravity, 14 
Hartmann, 27, 35, 46 
herd psychology, 4X 
home life, 138, 158-159 
hunger and privation, 25 
Ibsen, 40, 41, 46 
illusionism, 49, X95, 205 
illusions, see escape 
imagination, 136-137 
immortality, 282, 283, 285, 286 
impartiality of approach, 223 
impersonating faculty, 55, 216 
indifference to former work, 117 
individualism, 41 

individuals, treatment of, cf. with 
Chekhov, 19X; with Dostoyevsky, 
191; with Gorky, 191-192 
influences, 179, 180, 181, 285, 289 
inner slavery, 227, 237, 250 
intellect, profaned, popularized, 315, 
316; see also reason 
Intelligentsia, treatment of, 43, 44, 58, 
180; as Girl in Black, 254; bank¬ 
ruptcy of, 313 

Iron Grate formula, 272, 273, 279 
James Lynch, pseudonym, 38, 57, 65, 
73 

Judas Iscariot, 118, 161; and the 
Revolution, 270 
Kachalov, 124 
Kartashev, 168, 170 
Katherina Ivanovna, 124; at the Mos¬ 
cow Art Theatre, 125 
knights of the Holy Ghost, 153 
knights of the spirit, 52 
knowledge, absolute, unattainable, 
275, 281, 282; passion for, 278, 
279 

Kolchak, 167 
Kuprin, 121 
law practice, 35, 36 
Lazarus (self-portrait), 161 
Lenin, 173 

life, is eternal, 288; fear of, 191, 192; 
is a gray farce, 208-209; love for, 
despite drawbacks, 43, 45, 46, 184; 
mistress of A., 13; l.’s pettiness 
and vulgarity, 303, 310, 312, 3x4, 
316; l.’s misplaced forces, 303, 314, 
3i5 


Index 


Life of Man, 124, 129, 160, 161 
Lloyd George, 154 
Lorenzo, 179 
Los Angeles, 139 

made to order stories of A., 188, 189 
Maeterlinck, 106, 119, 133 
man, beast in m., 210; pivot of the 
universe, 181; m.’s discord, 303, 
320; m.’s solitude, 192, 193, 194, 
195; destroyed by love, 286, 303, 
310, 318; m.’s villainy, 303, 322- 
323 

mankind, contempt for, 151, 176, 315; 

faith in, 151; love for, 42 
masks, A.’s, 55 

material considerations, 138, 140 
material privations, 154, 169, 323; see 
also hunger 
Mikhailovsky, 67 
Milyukov, 167 
Moleschott, 27 

Moscow Art Theatre, 41, m-112, 
IX 9» 120, 124, 128, 129, 138, 263 
Moscow Dramatic Theatre, 133 
Moscow University, student of, 35 
mother of A., 154, 155; letter to, 156- 
160 

My Memoirs, 118 
Natasha, A.’s sister-in-law, 159 
nature, love for, 23, 24, 82, 174-175 
Nebuchadnezzar (unborn), 130 
negative attitudes, 179, 180, 182, 289, 
302, 315 

Nietzsche, 35, 46, 47, 48, 49, 73, 119, 
180, 181, 182, 183, 185, 186, 197, 
260, 267; rejected, 289, 294, 298, 
299, 301, 302 

Nihilism of Russian people, 314 
Ocean, the, 129 

optimism, dogmatic, 271, 274; superfi¬ 
cial public o., 126; o. through pes¬ 
simism, 46 
Orel, life in, 23 

painting, predilection for, 33, 34, 83, 
300 

parties, outside of, 16, 31, 63, 64, 65, 
181 

peace, hatred for, 186, 275 
Peace and War (unborn), 130 
Petrograd, last visit to, 154, 155; res¬ 
idence, 81-82; student at university, 
25 

philosophy, lack of definite, 181, 187, 
259, 299 


35i 

photography, infatuation with, 83 
Pisarev, 27, 35, 46, 179, 180, 261 
pity, 186-187, 285 
popular slogans, not his, 16 
portraits of A., 22, 83, 161-162, 168, 
75 

positive ideal, 283, 285 
Pre-Parliament, 150 
prison, A. in, 64, 69 
prohibition of A.’s plays, 60, 75, 238 
proletariat, 44, 45, 233 
protests against A., 71 
public, attitude of A. to, 51, 94, 122, 
124, 126, 128 
Pushkin, 319 

rank and file, A. one of, 15, 258, 298 
reader, attitude of A. to, 50 
reading, early, 23, 26, 27 
reason, adaptable, 272-275, 282; dog¬ 
matic, 244-245, 246, 260, 268, 269, 
271, 276, 278; r. vs. faith, 206; col¬ 
lapses before faith, 237-238, 268; 
Great Reason, 279, 281, 282, 298; as 
Black Sails, 294, 296, 297, 299, 301; 
martyrs for r., 271; negative at¬ 
titude toward r., 261-262; pre¬ 
sumptuous r., 275-276, 201, 202, 203; 
questing r. exalted, 260, 264, 276; 
Small, or Sufficient Reason, 265, 279, 
281, 282, 285, 298; successful r., 271; 
unalloyed r., 277, 297 
renunciation of responsibility, 50, 320- 
321 

reporter, 36, 37 
resignation, 187 

retrospection, sign of debility, 173-174 
Revolution, the (unborn), 130 
revolution, attitude to, 16, 69, 70, 176; 
reflected in Black Maskers, 173; in 
Thus It Was, 226, 227, 228; in 
To the Stars, 229-233; in other 
works, see titles 

revolutionists, respect for, 200, 230, 
244, 249, 250 
S. O. S., 164, 167 
sameness, 41 

Samson Enchained, 120, 128, 130, 319- 
320 

Satan's Diary, 117, 162-163 
saturation with personalities of char¬ 
acters, 53, 97-98 
Savva, A.’s son, 159 
scandalous renown, 87, 126 
sea, predilection for, 84, 172 


352 


Index 


Self, mystery of, 262, 264 
self-analysis, 173; self-flagellation, 
160, 161 
selfishness, 85 
sense of humor, 14 
Seven That Were Hanged, the, 118 
Shakespeare, 319 
Shchedrin, 163 
Social-Democrats, 64 
social events, treated, 215 
solitude, 74, 78, 113, 124, 129, 130, 
139 , 154, 161, 169, 175, 176, 318, 
323 

Son of Man, 118 

struggle exalted, 200, 230; see also 
revolutionists 
style, A.’s: 

allegory, 107, 108, no; biblical s., 
320; convincing power, 98, 216; 
discerning eye, 101; hasty composi¬ 
tion, 94, 112, 115, 116, 117, 121, 140, 
322; ignorance of aims, m-112; 
images, 101, 102, 104; intuitive 

knowledge, 98, 101, 113, 116-117, 
181, 216; music in A.’s works, 104- 
105; obscurity, 108, 109, no, in; 
pan-psychism, 99, 112, 119, 120, 

319; personal attitude to s., 120- 
121; s.-personality, 95; realism, 99, 
100, 103, 107, no, 121, 304; sim¬ 
plicity, lack of, 94; subjectivity, 
95 * 96, 97 * 98; surplusage, 114, 115, 
116; studies styles of Chekhov, 
Garchin, Tolstoy, 91; symbolism, 
99, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, no; 
unity of s., 322; lack of, 106, 107, 
118, 119; variety of s., 98-99 
success, external, 122 
suffering, life’s essence, 205, 266, 

291 

suicide, treatment of, 47, 198 
suicides, attempted, 28, 29, 30 
superman, 47, 197, 294, 298 
Surguchev, 129 
synthesis, 300, 301, 302, 323 
theatre, views on, 119, 120, 319 
Thou Shalt Not Kill, 120 
Thought, gloom of, 126 
thought, treatment of, 102, 191, 202- 
203, 204, 217, 224, 225, 259; t. “my 
enemy,” 118 

Tolstoy, 26, 28-29, 46, 179; caricature 
of, 273; A.’s visit, 91-93 
tragedy, exalted, 129 


truth, 278; half t., 297; t. and logic, 
272; pliable t., 274 
Turgenev, 121 
Uspensky, 91 
Vadim, A.’s son, 159 
Valentin, A.’s son, 159, 163 
Vera, A.’s daughter, 159 
Veresayev, 163 
voice of A., 15 
Volynsky, 27 

Vsevolod, A.’s brother, 159 
Waltz of the Dogs, 128, 317, 318 
war, attitude to, 218; dual attitude, 
131; exalts w., 129; poisoned by w., 
136, 161; portrayal of, 216; stimu¬ 
lated by, 132; w. propaganda, 135, 
144 

war, in Nietzsche’s sense, 275 
War’s Burden, 133, 136 
“Wednesdays,” 68, 69, 74, 79, 163 
Whites, 169, 176, 326 
Wilson, Woodrow, 153, 154 
writing impulse, 94 
writer, mission of, 5*, 52, 53 
Andreyevich, see Soloviev 
Anfisa, 123 
Anglo-Boer war, 73 
Anichkov, 72 

Arabazhin, 108, 109, 123, 238; see also 
under Andreyev, L. N. 

Archive of the Russian Revolution, 146, 
147, 148, 165, 167, 169 
art for art’s sake in Russia, 10 
Artsibashev, 16, 30, 62, 88 
Asch, Sholom, 60 
At the Window, 96, 191 

B 

Bakunin, 314 

Balance, the (Fesy) } 71, 72, 76 
Balmashev, 244 
Balmont, 10, 68, 135, 222 
Barbusse, 216 

Bargamot and Garaska, 57, 66-67; out- 
lined, 188; 189 
Beethoven, 89 
Belgium, 133 
Belinsky, 32, 61 
Belousov, I. (artist), 33, 68 
Belousov, I. A. (director of gymnasium), 

27 

Bely, A., 10 
Ben Tohit, 14 


Index 


353 


Benoit, A., 124, 313 
Bergson, H., 101 
Bernstein, H., 25, 170 
Bezano, 22 

Black Maskers , 34, 53, 83, 86, 98, 105, 
106, 108, 109, hi, u6, 118, 262, 
263; outlined, 263-264; symbolic 
pregnancy of, 265, 301, 321; see 
also under Andreyev 
Blok, A., 5, 10, 32; see also under 
Andreyev 

Bloody Sunday, 69; see also Red 
Sunday 
Boborykin, 68 
Bobrinsky, 135 
Bogdanovich, A., 14, 67, 72 
Bolsheviki, 5, 43, 62, 63, 145, 146, 148, 
150, 151; reason for victory, 151- 
152; 162, 235, 252, 253; see also 
under Andreyev 
Book, the, 23 

Book on Andreyev, a, 30, 32, 34, 56, 64, 
7°, 78, 79 , 84, 94 , lx 3 > ”6, 117, 
127, 186, 189, 233, 300 
Bostrem, 72 
Botsianovsky, 67, 72 
Bourse Gazette {Birzhevyia Vedomosti), 
66 

Brand, 206 

Brest Litovsk, 148, 153 
Bruno, Giordano, 229, 241 
Brusilov, General, 142 
Brusyanin, 28, 30, 69, 70, 77, 99 
Bryusov, 10, 68, 72, 76, 103, 135, 222 
Bulgakov, S., 11, 16, 135 
Bulgakov, V., 88, 89, 91, 92 
Bunin, 7, 9, 63, 68 
Burenin, 67, 71 

Burtsev, 166; see also under Andreyev 
Byron, 12 

C 

Cadets, 64, 151, 167; policy, 305, 306, 
307, 308; their merit, 308-309, see 
also under Andreyev 
Capitalism, late appearance, 6; rapid 
growth, 8, 10, 44, 218 
Catherine II, 3, 4 
Chaliapine, see Shalyapin 
characters in A.’s stories and plays: 
abbe, 294, 296 
Alexandrov, 318 

Anathema, 96, 107, 108, 278, 279, 280, 


281, 282, 283, 285, 286, 299, 300, 
322 

Andrey Nikolayevich, 191, 192 
Apostles, 97, 276 
artists ( Tsar Hunger ), 253, 254 
Astronomer, the, 86, 212, 229, 230, 231, 
232, 241, 298, 299 
Augustus, 96, 287, 288 
Bargamot, 57 
Baron, the, 316 
Bezano, 317 
Blumenfeld, 134 

Christ, 105, hi, 269, 276, 277, 278, 
279, 285, 299, 300 

Consuella, 316, 317; see also under 
Andreyev 
Dan, 105 

Delilah, 320, 321, 323 
Doctor {Life of Man), 278 
drunkards {Life of Man), 192 
Duke Lorenzo, 34, 53, 83, 105, 109, 
in, 116, 263, 264, 296, 300, 321, 
322; see also under Andreyev 
engineer {Tsar Hunger ), 105, 253 
Francesca, 264, 301 
Garaska, 57 

Girl-in-Black {Tsar Hunger), 254 
Governor, the, 224, 225, 257 
Governor’s son, the, 97 
Haggart, 102, 186, 187, 294, 295, 296, 
297, 298, 299, 301 

He Who Gets Slapped, 315, 316, 317, 

3i9 

hooligans {Tsar Hunger), 105, 252 
Horre, 55, 296, 297, 298 
Hunger, Tsar, 250, 251, 252, 268 
Ignaty, Father, 194 
Jesus, see Christ 
John, Apostle, 219, 276 
Judas Iscariot, 33, 96, 105, in, 269, 
276, 277, 278, 279, 281, 285, 299, 
300, 322 
Kashirin, 240 

Katherina Ivanovna, 310, 312, 313, 

3i9 

Kerzhentsev, 186, 202, 203, 204, 217, 
262, 265, 271, 297, 321, 322 
Kovalchuk, Tanya, 241 
Lazarus, 96, 115, 287, 288; see also 
under Andreyev 

Leiser, David, 187, 212, 279, 280, 281, 
282, 283, 285, 286, 299, 300 
leper, the {The Wall), 96, 198, 

200 


354 


Index 


Lipa (Savva), 237, 268 
Man (Life of Man), 105, 107, 108, 
no 

Mariette, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300 
Martius (Pretty Sabine Women), 307 
Marusya, 230, 231, 232, 298, 299 
Maurice (King, Lav:, Liberty), 134 
Mentikov, 312, 313 
Musya, 102, 187, 241, 286 
Nemovetsky, 200, 201, 262, 296 
Nikolay, 229, 230, 231, 232 
Noni (Ocean), 301 
Nullius, 108, 279; see also Anathema 
Onufry (Days of Our Life), 26 
organ grinder (Anathema), 107 
Pavel (In Fog), 194 
Pavel’s father, 97 
Peter, Apostle, 276 
Petka (Little Peter in the Country), 
196 

pickpocket, the (The Thief), 102 
Pogodin, Sasha, 247, 248 
priest, the (Tsar Hunger), 105, 253 
Prince Poniatovski, 315 
Prisoner (My Memoirs), 97, 105, 271 
professor, the (Tsar Hunger), 253, 
254 

Rosa (Anathema), 107, 280 
Samson, 96, 319, 320, 321, 323 
Sashka (Little Angel), 196 
Sashka Zhegulev, 247, 248, 321 
Satan, 322, 323 

Savva, 55, 186, 192, 235, 236, 237, 266, 
267, 271, 322 

Savvich (Professor Storitsyn), 310, 
311 

Sergey (Professor Storitsyn), 311 
Sergey Golovin (Seven Hanged), 
114, 241 

Sergey Petrovich, 197, 200 
Snapper, 96, 195 

Someone Guarding the Gates, 278, 
279, 281 

Someoue-in-Gray, 107, 208, 209, 278 
Storitsyn, 299, 310, 311, 314, 31?, 321 
Telemakhov (Professor Storitsyn), 
299, 3ir 

Ternovsky, see Astronomer 
terrorist, the (Darkness), 102, 268, 

321 

Thomas, Apostle, 276 
Tille (Waltz of the Dogs), 318, 319 
Treitch (To the Stars), 186, 233, 234, 
235, 251 


Tsiganok (Seven Hanged), 23, 53, 
240 

Vasily, Father, 104, 105, 115, 204, 
205, 206, 265, 266, 286 
Vasily’s wife, 204 
Wandergood, see Satan 
Werner, 85, 187, 212, 241, 286, 287 
Wife, the (Life of Man), 108, no, 
208 

workmen (Tsar Hunger), 105, 250, 
251 

Yakov (Thou Shalt Not Kill), 313, 
3H 

Yanson (Seven Hanged), 240 
Yegor (Ghosts), 62, 102 
Yeremy, King Herod (Savva), 267 
Zinida (He Who Gets Slapped), 317 
Chekhov, 5, 7, 8, 9, 14, 43, 47, 57 > 60, 
61, 68, 69, 95, 109, 112, 114, 125, 
191 

Chernyshevsky, 6, 61 

Cherry Orchard, 8 

Chinese Campaign, 73 

Chirikov, 9, 32, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 68 

Chkheidze, 309 

Christians, 36, 89 

Chukovsky, 33, 53, 55, 7°> 77> 82, 83, 
92, 94, 97, 112, 117, 174, 216, 300 
Chulkov, 32, 126 
City, the, 23, 193 

city, the, as a factor in life, 6, 8, 9, 10 
Claudel, 103 
Clemen^eau, 167 
commoners, 7 

Concerning a Hungry Student, 26 
Constellation of Big Maxim, 60, 61, 69 
Constituent Assembly, 145, 147, 152, 
220 

Contemporary Annals (Sovremennyia 
Za piski), 150 

Contemporary World (Sovremenny 
Mir), 37, 63, 154 
coup d’etat of June, 1907, 304 
Courier, see Moscow 
Croce, 95, 99, 100, in 
Curse of the Beast, the, 23, 41, 78, 193 

D 

Damansky, Augusta, 85 
Darkness, 50, 76, 77, 86, 88, 102, 187; 
outlined, 244-245; 246, 248, 268, 
269, 321 

Days of Our Life, 26, 31, 55, 63, 86, 

87, n8 


Index 


355 


Dear Phantoms, 140, 314 
Decadents, 67, 113 
Decembrists, 200 
Defense, the, 36, 67 
Denikin, 166 

Denisevich, A.’s father-in-law, 85 
Denisevich, maiden name of Mme. A., 
^4? 85 

Derzhavin, 3 

Diary, A.’s, 27, 75, 79, 160, 161, 162, 
163, 165, 168, 174, 175, 180, 181, 
264, 300 
Dissonance, 49 
Dobrolyubov, 61 
Doroshevich, 38 

Dostoyevsky, 5, 6, 15, 32, 42, 57, 61, 
66, 67, 71, 100, 135, 188, 189, 190, 
2x1, 214, 224, 239; on rationalism, 
274, 277; on suffering, 275, 291; his 
Grand Inquisitor, 294; Smerdya- 
kov, 296, 299, 316; see also under 
Andreyev 

Duma, the, 135, 136, 144; attitude 

toward revolution, 145, 146, 220, 
221; a farce, 222, 231, 239, 304, 
305; its merit, 308-309, 310, 313 


E 

Education ( Obrazovaniye ), 72 
Efros, 123 
eighties, the, 8, 21 
Eleazar, see Lazarus 
emancipation of peasants, 7 
Enemy of the People, Ibsen’s, 40, 49 
Everybody’s Magazine (Zhurnal dlya 
vsekh ), 24, 67 
Everyman, 108, no, 210 
expropriations, wave of, 245-246 

F 

famine of 1890-1891, n 
Far East, 2x9 
Fet, 10 

feuilletonists, 37 
Field, the (Niva), 26, 124 
Fire-Bird, the (Zhar P tits a), 168 
First Literary Steps (Fidler), 23, 25, 
26, 27, 33, 59-6o, 155 
Flaubert, 95, 96, 98, 113, 122 
Foreigner, the, 49, 67, 74 
France, Anatole, 14, 132, 218 
Francis, St., 280 


Freeman, the, 5 

French philosophers of the XVIII c., 4 
From a Story Which Will Never Be 
Finished, 249, 250 

From My Life, 24, 25, 26, 33, 36, 38, 
57 

From the life of Captain Kablukov, 67, 
188 

Furniture, 68 

G 

Galileo, 229 
Garshin, 32, 91, 238 
Gaudeamus, 31 

general strike, 1905, 220-221, 234 
gentry point of view in literature, 5, 8 
Germany, war with, 132, 135, 136, 141, 
150 

Gessen, 55, 165, 167, 168; letter from 
A., 165-166 
Ghosts, 62, 102 

God's World (Mir Bozhiy), 67, 72 
Goethe, 105, 106 

Gogol, 5 * 3 2 > 6l > 62, 99, 100, 223 
Goloushev, letters to, 65, 127-128, 138, 
139, 140, 141, 151, 160, 181, 300, 
314, 318; see also under Andreyev 
Goltsev, 68 

Gorky, 9, n, 12, 44, 63, 78, 79, 82, xoo, 
xi2, 163; G. and Bolsheviki, 164, 
X71, 191, 198; G. and A., 57-65, 68, 
77; G. cf. with A., 63, 116, 118, 
122, 190, 199, 215, 218, 233, 238; 
G. on A., 29-30, 62, 64, 65, 70, 
78-79, 94, 1x2, 1x3, 1x6, 186, 189, 
2x6; see also under Andreyev 
Gosse, Edmund, X09 
Gourmont, Remy de, 95, 109 
Government’s campaign of vengeance, 
222; concessions in 1905, 220, 239; 
hypocrisy, 309; oppressive policy, 

30, 198-199, 235, 304, 307, 309; 
torture of politicals, 231 
Governor, the, 69, 97, 100, 102, 223; 

outlined, 224-225; 226 
Goya, Francisco, 34, 35; see also under 
Andreyev 

Grand Slam, the, outlined, 193 
Grigorovich, 5 

Guchkov, A., 135, 145, 149, 305 
Gumilev, 5 
Gurevich, S. L., 169 
Gusev, N. N., 88 
Gusev-Orenburgsky, 9, 60 


356 


Index 


H 

Hamsun, Knut, 12, 60, 63 
Hardy, Thomas, 14, 192 
Hartmann, 26 

Hauptmann, Gerhart, 47, 218 
He Who Gets Slapped, 23, 41, 50, 105, 
119, 120; outlined, 3 1 5 - 3 I 7 J 3 * 9 > 
322, 323 

Helsingfors, 158, 165, 169, 170 
Hermogenes, Bishop, 123 
Herzen, A., 6 
Hippius, Z., 10, 16, 76 
His First Fee, 36; outlined, 189 
History of the Second Russ. Revolution, 
see Milyukov 
Holiday, A., outlined, 189 
Homo Novus (Kugel), 38 
Hrustalev, 233, 234 

I 

Ibsen, 11, 12, 21, 40, 41; Enemy of the 
People, 40, 49, 321; When We 
Dead Awaken, 40; Wild Duck, the, 
40; see also under Andreyev 
idealization of peasant, 5 
In the Basement, 191 
In Fog, 71, 72, 74, 91, 97; outlined, 
194 

Individualism, Gorky’s, 9; Ibsen’s, 41 
industrial conditions, see Capitalism 
Intelligentsia, appearance of, 3; defini¬ 
tion, 4, 5; first martyrs of, 5, 7, 
8, 9, 10, 11, 16, 43, 44, 135, 141, 
182, 189, 199, 221, 245; see also 
under Andreyev 

Into the Dark Far-Away, outlined, 195 
Ivanov, P., 72 
Ivanov, Vyacheslav, 75 
Ivanov-Razumnik, 76 
Izmailov, A., 28, 33, 35, 36, 37, 54, 
59, 66, 76, 81-82, 98 

J 

Japan, war with, 132, 218, 219, 249 
Job, 206, 231 

Judas Iscariot, 34, 35, 63, 75, 76, 77, 
86, 91, 97, 108, 143, 187, 268; out¬ 
lined, 269-271, 276-278; 288, 299, 
300, 320, 323; see also under 

Andreyev 

K 

Kachalov, 125; see also under An¬ 
dreyev 


Kalyayev, 244 
Kant, 134 
Kantemir, 3 

Kartashev, 166; see also under Andreyev 
Katherina Ivanovna, 117, 119, 124, 125, 
303, 310; outlined, 312-313; 319, 
322; see also under Andreyev 
Kaun, A., 135, 141, 218 
Kellermann, 186 

Kerensky, 136, 144, 147, 148, 150, 309 
Kiev period, 3; K. reporters, 123 
King, Law, Liberty, 133; outlined, 134; 

151, 314; see also under Andreyev 
“Kiss Him and be Silent,” 54, 97, 114 
Kogan, Professor Peter, 124 
Kogan-Bernstein, 244 
Kolchak, 166; see also under Andreyev 
Konoplyannikova, 244 
Kornilov, A., 24, 135 
Kornilov, General, 149, 150, 151, 

166 

Korolenko, 61, 100, 155, 166 

Kranichfeld, 37 

Krasnov, General, 147 

Krayny, A., 71 

Kropotkin, 135 

Krymov, General, 148 

Kugel (Homo Novus), 38 

Kuprin, 9, 88; see also under Andreyev 

Kuropatkin, General, 219 

Kuzmin, 16, 71, 135 

L 

Latzko, 216 

Laughter, outlined, 193 
Lavretsky, 47 

Lazarus, 86, 91, 100, 108, 114; out¬ 
lined, 287-288 
Legacies (Zavety ), 63 
Lenin (Tulin, Ilyin), 11, 63, 135, 150, 
I 5 1 » 307; see also under Andreyev 
Lermontov, 61 

Letters on the Theatre, 10 6, 109, hi, 
112, 119; see also under Andreyev 
Liberator, the, 171 
Lichtenberger, Henri, 48, 260 
Lie, the, 67, 68, 70; outlined, 194 
Life (Zhizn), 66 

Life of Man, 15, 24, 33, 34, 41, 76, 77, 
80, 83, 86, 88, 91, 104, 105, 106, 107, 
108, no, 123, 125, 175, 192; epitome 
of first period, 207; outlined, 208- 
211; 212, 286, 321 



Index 


357 


Life of Vasily Fiveysky, 49, 71, 75, 104, 
no, 114, 115, 183; outlined, 204- 
206; 265, 268 

Literary Disintegration, 16, 17, 76 
Literary Messenger (Vestnik Liter a- 
tury), 67 

Literary Olympus (Literaturny Olimp) y 
see Izmailov 

Little Angel, the, 49; outlined, 196 
Little Peter in the Country, outlined, 196 
Lomonosov, 3 
London Chronicle, 132 
London Times, 16, 64, 65, 150, 153 
Love to Your Neighbor, 14 
Lukomsky, General, 147 
Lunacharsky, 16, 17, 75, 76 
Lvov, Prince G., 65 
Lvov-Rogachevsky, 22, 28, 34, 35, 51, 
54, 60, 64, 66, 77, 82, 175, 179, 180, 
246, 286, 300 

M 

Madame Bovary, 91, 96 
Maeterlinck, 14, 103, 106, 107, no, in, 
218; see also under Andreyev 
Mallarme, Stephane, 109 
Malyantovich, 36 
Manasseyin, 72 
March, General, 167 
Marxian Socialism, 8, 9, n, 12, 21, 61 
mass action in Russian literature, 238 
Maupassant, 100 
Maximalists, 235, 245 
Mensheviki, 63, 235 
Mercure de France, 76 
Merezhkovsky, 10, 16, 135, 222; on A., 
54, 66, 75, 81, 88, 97, 172, 238; see 
also under Andreyev 
Merry Widow, the, 76 
Michael, Father, 72 
Michael, Grand Duke, 145 
Mikhailovsky, 6, 61, 66, 68, 70; see also 
under Andreyev 

Milyukov, 65, 135, 142, 145, 147, 150, 
151, 152, 167, 304, 305, 306, 307, 
309; see also under Andreyev 
Minsky, 10, 222 
mir, the, 6, 7 
Mirsky, see Soloviev 
Moleschott, 26 
Montaigne, 14, 108 

Monthly Writings (Yezhemesyachnyia 
Sochineniya ), 67 
Morozov, 98 


Moscow, Art Theatre, 40, 47, 58, 117; 
see also under Andreyev; M. bar¬ 
ricades, 16, 234, 245; M. Courier, 
3i, 35, 36, 38, 57, 67; M. Dramatic 
Theatre, 109, 315, 317; see also 
under Andreyev; M. Messenger 
{Vestnik), 36; M. period, 22; M. 
University, 32, 35 
Mussorgsky, 32 
Mustamyaki, 172, 174 
My Memoirs, 86, 92, 97, 105; outlined 
271-274; 298, 307, 323 

N 

Nabokov, 147, 305, 309 
Naked Soul, a, 27 

Narodnik ideas, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 21, 44, 
61, 248 

Narodovoltsy, 200 

Native Land {Rodnaya Zemlya), 53, 
154, 162, 167, 168, 172, 175 
Nekrasov, 6, 32, 61, 66, 155 
Nemirovich-Danchenko, 124; letters 
from A., 117, 120, 125, 126, 128, 
130, 133, 140, 151, 164, 174, 181, 
314, 318, 319; see also under An¬ 
dreyev 

Neva Path (Novy Puf) } 71, 72 
New Republic, the, 175 
New Times {Novoye Vremya), 67, 71, 
72 , 75 

New York Times, 133, 143, 170 
News (Novosti ), 67, 72 
Nezlobin, letter from A., 109-110 
Nicolas II, 145, 152 
Nietzsche, n, 12, 14, 21, 47, 89, 197; 
N.’s dynamic tone, 185; N.’s poem, 
Ecce homo!, 265; N.’s tragedy, 264 
Nietzsche’s views on: 

Christianity, 280, 291-292 
church, 182 

creativeness, only happiness, 186 

Darwin, 184 

equality, 292, 293 

evolution, 184, 290 

free for what, not from what, 228 

happiness, 182 

Higher men, 230, 282 

hymn to life, 184, 185 

intellect, see Small Reason 

knowledge, passion for, 275, 282 

man’s cruelty, 278 

memento vivere, 184 

morality, 290, 291, 292 


Index 


358 


Nietzsche’s views on: ( continued .) 
pain, 182, 291 
Personalism, 293, 294, 302 
pettiness, 312 
pity, 20 

popularization, 315 
revolution, 258 

Schopenhauer, adheres to, 183, 289- 
290; differs from, 183, 184, 290, 
291, 292 

Small Reason, 182, 262; alloy in r. 
277 

society, 182 

state, 182, 254, 256, 257 
suicide, 197 
synthesis, 301, 302 
truth, 297 
war, 275 

will-to-power, 182, 184, 187, 290, 291, 
293, 298 

see also under Andreyev 
Nihilism, 46, 236, 314 
nineties, the, 6, 11, 16 
North-Western Government, 167, 168 
Northern Messenger (Severny Vestnik), 
26, 27 

Notes from Underground, 274, 275, 277 

Notes of a Huntsman, 23 

nouvelle, 100 

Novik, 36, 37, 57 

Novikov, 5, 10 

Novikov, a student, 35 

Novodvorsky, 98 

Noyes, George Rapall, 112 

O 

obshchina, 6, 7 

Ocean, the, 53, 84, 103, 105, 106, 108, 
109, hi, 117, 119, 187; outlined, 
294-298; 299, 301, 321 
October Manifesto, 221, 304 
Octoberists, 305 
Olgin, 244 

On the River, outlined, 189 
Once There Lived, 66; outlined, 195 
opposition, keynote of Russian litera¬ 
ture, 5 

Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky, 76 
P 

Parrot ( Pessimist ), the, 118 

Pasvolsky, L., 150 

Pater, Walter, 108, 113, 114, 115 


Paul, St., 280 

peasants, 5, 6, 10, it; in army, 146; 

inert, 199; impoverished, 219 
Peasants (by Chekhov), 7 
Peshekhonov, 198 
Peter the Great, 3, 4, 10, 44 
Petrograd, barricades in 1914, 135; gar¬ 
rison in revolt, 145 
Petrunkevich, 305 
“Philosophic Society,” 127 
Philosophov, 16, 75, 238 
Pisarev, 46, 61, 62, 179; see also under 
Andreyev 
Plehve, von, 220 
Plekhanov, 11, 135 
Pockowski, A.’s mother, 155 
Poe, E. A., 100, 113 
Polevitsky, Mile., 317 
Polish mothers of Russian writers, 155 
Pomyalovsky, 32 
Poor Russia, 42 

Pre-Parliament, 64, 65, 150, 151 
Present, the, outlined, 189 
Pretty Sabine Women, 14, 65, 167, 303; 
outlined 306-307 

Professor Storitsyn, 50, 119, 124, 298, 
303; outlined 310-311; 319, 321, 322 
Progressive Bloc, 145 
Prokopovich, sermons of, 3 
proletariat, 11, 44, 199, 221, 233 
Protopopov, critic, 67 
Protopopov, minister, 138, 150 
Provisional Government, 142, 145, 146, 

150- 151 

Purishkevich, 135, 150 
Pushkin, 32, 61, 99, 100, 264 

R 

Radishchev, 5, 10 
Ransome, A., 100 
Rasputin, 138, 310 
realism, 99, 100, 105 
Red Laugh, the, 14, 53, 54, 70, 79, 98* 
104, 114, 115, 132; outlined, 215-218 
Red Sunday, 69, 223, 249 
Redko, A., 76 
Reisner, 77 

repentant noble (penitent gentry), 5, 7, 
248 

Repin, 34, 83 
Requiem, 314 
Reshetnikov, 7 
Revel, 167, 170 


Index 


359 


Review, the, 150 

revolution, of 1905, 7, 16, 218-222, 221, 
234-235, 249; of 1917, 142, 145-146; 
see also under Andreyev 
Robbery Planned, outlined, 189 
Rodichev, 135, 309 
Rodionov, 7 

Rodzianko, 142, 145; his testimony on 
the state of the Russian army, 146, 
148 

Roerich, 34, 35, 82; on A., 161-162, 164, 
169; letters from A., 170-171, 172, 
173 

Rolland, Romain, 132, 218 
Rozanov, V., 72, 75 
Rudder, the (Ruhl ), 55 
Ruin and Destruction, 149 
Russia, after 1905, 304-305; in war, 135, 
141; on the eve of the war, 312 
Russia under Nicolas II, see Kaun 
Russ, army, breakdown of discipline, 
149; conscious of self-importance, 
146; disintegration of, 147-148; 
feared and flattered, 144-145; lack 
of ammunition, 148; loyalism, 221, 
307; revolutionization of, 307; 
under the Bolsheviki, 148 
Russ. Banner (Russkoye Znamya), 123 
Russ. Emigrant (Russky Emigrant ), 36, 

37 

Russ. Gazette (Russkiya Vedomosti), 
72 , 73 

Russ. Literature in the XX c., see Ven¬ 
gerov 

Russ. Miscellanies (Russkiye Sborniki), 
32, 61, 63, 64 

Russ. Morning ( Utro Rossii ), 84 
Russ. Riches (Russkoye Bogatstvo ), 66, 
67, 76 

Russ. Thought (Russkaya Mysl ), 54, 67, 
88 

Russ. Voice ( Golos Rossii), 85, 117, 

141 

Russ. IVill ( Russkaya Volya), 138, 143, 
147, 150 

Russ. Word ( Russkoye Slovo), 35, 76 
Russian writers, as a unit 61-62; social 
writers, 214 
Russky, General, 142 
Ryss, P., 148 

S 

S. O. S., 153, 162, 164, 169, 171; see 
also under Andreyev 


Sack, A. I., 244 
Saltykov-Shchedrin, 8, 123 
Samson Enchained, 50, 105, 120, 137, 
299 , 3 ° 3 ; outlined, 319-322; see 
also under Andreyev 
Sand, George, 95 

Sashka Zhegulev, 50, 53, 100; outlined, 
245-249; 32 i 

Satan’s Diary, 25, 100, 101, 153, 162, 
I 7°> 303; outlined, 322-323; see 
also under Andreyev 
Savitsky, boy expropriator, 246 
Savva, 23, 41, 49, 63, 75, 86, 143, 192; 

outlined, 235-238; 268 
Savva, A.’s son, 84, 118, 159 
Sayler, Oliver, 47 
Schnitzler, 60 

Schopenhauer, 26, 47; epic calm of 
style, 185 
his views on: 
altruism, 283, 293 
church, 182 
contemplator, the, 230 
death, to the altruist, 287-288; 

to the egoist, 288 
happiness, 182, 208 
head vs. heart, 268 
heroic life, 289 
illusion, 208, 283 
immortality, 283 
intellect, see sufficient reason 
knowledge, transcendental, of 
Ideas, 283 

monarchy vs. anarchy, 257 
moral precepts, 284-285 
obscurity in writing, hi 
pain, 182, 207 
pity, 186, 284, 293 
religion, 258 
revolution, 258 
sameness, ennui, 208 
simplicity in writing, 116 
society, 182 

state, 182, 254, 255, 256, 257 
suffering, essence of life, 266 
Sufficient Reason, 182, 261-262, 
283 

victor (conqueror), the, 211, 242 
will-to-live, 182, 187, 211, 255, 
262, 283, 284; denial of w. t. 1., 
211, 283, 284, 293; 
see also under Andreyev 
Serafimovich, 9, 60, 68 
Sergey, Grand Duke, 220 


360 Index 


Sergey Petrovich, 35, 47, 48; outlined, 
197 

Serov, 34 

service, motive of Russian literature, 3, 
5, 10 

Seven That Were Hanged, the Story 
of, 23, 36, 41, 53 , 54 , 79 , 80, 81, 85, 
86, 89, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 113, 
115, 123, 187, 212; outlined, 239- 
243; 245, 246, 250, 257, 286, 288 
Severyanin, Igor, 136 
Shakespeare, 89 
Shalyapin, 68, 82 
Shaw, 218 
Shield, the, 64, 272 
Shingarev, 309 
Shrew, the, 68 
Shulyatikov, 67 
Silence, 68; outlined, 194 
Simmel, Georg, 184, 280, 293, 294 
Skabichevsky, 67 

Skitalets, 9, 60, 68, 85, 117, 140-141 
slaves of the soil, 7 
slipshod writing, in Russ, literature, 112 
Snapper, the, 96; outlined, 195 
Socialism, 6, 12; see also Marxian So¬ 
cialism 

Social-Democrats, 62, 64, 220 
Social-Revolutionists, 6, 64, 200, 220, 
235 , 245 

Sologub, 16, 135; on Samson Enchained, 
322 

Soloviev, E. (Andreyevich, Mirsky), 
67, 72 , 73-74 # 

Soloviev, Vladimir, 62 

Soviet {see Bolsheviki), 146, 228, 233 

Speech ( Rech ), 124, 305, 313 

Sphinx of Modernity, 39, 40 

Spingarn, 99 

Stakhovich, 135 

Stanislavsky, 40 

Stankevich, 144, 147, 149 

Stendhal, 215 

Stockman (Ibsen’s), 41, 50 
Stolypin, 245, 304, 305, 307; “S.’s collar,” 
239 

Strindberg, 103 
Struve, 11, 151 
subjectivity, in art, 95 
Sumarokov, 3 

superman, the, 12, 183, 197; see also 
under Andreyev 
Suttner, Baroness von, 82 
symbolism, 103, 104, 105, 109 


Symbolistes, 109, 113 
Symbolists, 113, 214 
Symons, Arthur, 99, no 

T 

Teleshev, 9, 60, 68, 69 
terrorists, 200, 243 

Theatre and Art {Teatr i Iskusstvo ), 
123 

Thief, the, 102, 104 
third estate, 145-146 
Thou Shalt Not Kill, 119, 124, 303, 310; 

outlined, 313-315 ; 322 
Thought (play), 126, 263; see also 
under Andreyev 

Thought (story), 67, 70, 102, 154, 183; 
outlined, 202; 215, 259, 262, 265, 
271, 321 

Thus It Was, 41, 64, 69, 70, 104, 143, 
225; outlined, 226-228; 233, 237, 
253, 257, 258, 266, 268 
Timkovsky, 68 

To the Russian Soldier, 147, 155 
To the Stars, 41, 60, 212, 228; out¬ 
lined, 229-233; 238, 250, 251, 299 
Tocsin, the, 70, 104, 114, 115 
Tolstoy, Dmitri, 24 

Tolstoy, Leo, 6, 7, 14, 32, 61, 67, 87, 

99, 100, 112, 188, 214, 215, 223, 
238, 239, 273, 274, 314; T. and A., 
34, 35, 46, 47, 87, 88, 89; letter to 
A., 89-91; letter discussed, 93-122, 
140; A.’s visit, 91-93; his impres¬ 
sion on T., 92; their parting, 92-93; 
see also under Andreyev 

Tolstoy, Sophia (Countess), 71 
Tredyakovsky, 3 
Trotsky, 135, 148, 234 
Tsar Hunger, 36, 41, 76, 78, 88, 99, 

105; outlined, 250-254; summary 
of A.’s views on collective humanity, 
250, 257 
Tseretelli, 309 
Tugan-Baranovsky, n 
Turgenev, 5, 7, 8, 23, 32, 61, 62, 87, 

100, 112, 114, 214, 223 
Twain, Mark, 221 

Two Truths; see Lvov-Rogachevsky 

Tyursevo, 158, 162, 163, 172, 174 

U 

Umansky, K., 314 
University Day, 31 


Index 


361 


Uspensky, Gleb, 6, 7; see also under 
Andreyev 

V 

Vammelsu, 82, 162, 172 
Vengerov, S. A., 25, 29, 31, 85 
Veresayev, 9, 60, 68, 78, 79, 155 
Verhaeren, 60, 103 

village commune, 6; its disintegra¬ 
tion, 8 
Volkelt, 104 
Volynsky, 27 
Vrubel, 32, 34 

W 

Wagner, 89 

Wall, the, 66, 67, 70, 96, 114, 115; out¬ 
lined, 198; 199, 250 
Walling, W. E., 136 
Waltz of the Dogs, the, 105, 119, 303; 
outlined, 317-318; 319, 322; see also 
under Andreyev 

War’s Burden, 133; outlined, 134-135; 

see also under Andreyev 
war’s effect on Russia, 132; its popular¬ 
ity, 135, 141 

“Wednesdays,” 68, 69, 70, 79 
Week, the (Niedielya ), 26 
western ideas, 4 
When We Dead Awaken, 40 
Whistler, 100 

Whitman, Walt, 60; his “divine aver¬ 
age,” 191 


Wild Duck, the, 40, 46, 47, 49 
Wild Rose ( Shipovnik ), Almanac, 63, 
77, 106 

Wilde, Oscar, 99 
Wilson, Woodrow, 171 
Witte, Count S., 233, 305 
Wrangel, 166 

Y 

Yablonovsky, 38, 135 
Yale Review, 147 
Yartsev, 123 
Yasinsky, 67 

Yasnaya, Polyana, 87, 89, 91, 92 
Yellow Peril, 219 

Yordansky, Maria, 154, 162, 163, 164, 
167, 168, 172, 175, 176 
Yordansky, N., 135 
Young Men, 67 
Youshkevich, 9 
Youth, 314 

Yudenich, 166, 167, 169 
Z 

Zarathustra, 197, 198, 296, 298, 30X, 
316 

Zaytsev, 60, 68 
Zhelyabov, 244 
Zilboorg, 65, 150 
Zlatovratsky, 68 
Znaniye, 60, 63, 66, 112 
Zola, 52, 99 
Zotov, 244 





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